Etched
by Withershins
Summary: AU L/Light. It was a brief fling that lasted much longer than it was supposed to. One a student and part-time forensic artist, the other the greatest detective in the world. When it ended, both were sure they'd never meet again. But fate had other plans.
1. Lies and Lovers

_Standard disclaimers apply._

_A few quick notes before we begin: First, this is an AU, in which there is no Death Note and no shinigami, and some other details will be different as well. I'll be playing around with ages a little, so be aware of that. Primarily, I'm making Mello, Matt, and Near a bit older – around Light's age and maybe even a little older. _

_Second, there will be multiple pairings in this story – I won't tell you all of them, so as not to spoil the surprise – but I will tell you the main pairing will be L and Light. _

_Finally, warnings for sex (not explicit), language (all over the fucking place), violence (later), and murder (much later)._

_I hope you enjoy the first chapter._

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

_Lies and Lovers_

* * *

><p><em>July, 2000<em>

Dozens of photographs, each one a snapshot of humanity, lay strewn across the flat surface of a student's desk, a single messy highlight to an otherwise tidy bedroom.

In one, resting towards the center of the desk, a windswept young woman in faded blue jeans stared into the distance against a grass-covered hill, her mouth a thin, resigned line but hope not completely gone from her gaze. To the left of it, a middle-aged man smiled blandly at the camera, his hair greying and the corners of his eyes pinched in annoyance. A few photo's above that, an entire frame was taken by a woman's face, her mouth hanging open and her eyes screwed shut, obviously in the throes of sex. And in another– a sun-kissed child's widened eyes and slackened jaw, her moment of surprise forever locked on film.

Countless photos, people of every age, nationality, and emotion, all frozen in time and scattered across a single schoolboy's desk.

The schoolboy in question, a fourteen-year-old Yagami Light, frowned down at the mass of humanity gathered upon his workplace. In one hand, a pencil tapped in concentrated thought, and the other drummed quietly on an empty sketchbook.

After several quiet, almost expectant moments of careful deliberation, his long fingers gently plucked up one of the photographs – a young, determined boy scowling his stubbornness at an exasperated mother – and he studied it like it held the secrets to all life's mysteries.

Then, gingerly placing it beside the waiting sketchbook, he put his pencil to paper and began to draw.

* * *

><p><em>January, 2005<em>

"Describe the man's nose for me, please, and focus on any details you can remember."

"Um…he had a large nose…somewhat…bulbous, I guess…"

A pause, the only sound one of a pencil's scratching.

"…Like this?"

"Yeah, that looks about right."

"What about his eyes?"

"Well, they were smallish…set pretty close together…almond-shaped…"

_Scratch, scratch, scratch._

"And his eyebrows?"

"Um…I don't know. Just average, I guess. I wasn't paying much attention to his eyebrows."

_Scratch, scratch, brush, scratch._

"His mouth?"

"His mouth was thin and straight, like a…pencil."

"A pencil?"

"Well, obviously not quite that long."

"Right." _Scratching._ "Did it look something like this?"

"Yes! That's very good."

"Thank you. Now, what about his cheek structure and general face shape?"

"Um…he had kinda broad cheeks and a round face. I think."

The pencil danced across the page – gentle, sweeping strokes.

"Okay… and what about his hair?"

"It was black and short."

"Do you remember anything else? For example, was it thick, was he beginning to go bald?"

"It was pretty thick."

"Straight, wavy?"

"Straight."

One last pause, longer than the rest, as final details were added and previous lines were darkened and embellished.

"…Alright, I'm about finished… There. Did the man you see look something like this?"

"…Yeah, that looks a lot like him! You're a very good artist, Yagami-san."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you. And thank you for your time, Mochizuki-san. You've been a big help. Now, if you don't mind waiting here a moment, I believe Detective Yoshimoto has a few questions for you."

"Okay, that's fine."

Yagami Light quickly and firmly stepped out of the small interrogation room and into a narrow, florescent-lit hallway. He tucked his pencils into his pocket and, running a critical eye over the sketch in his hand, gently closed the door behind him. He felt reasonably pleased with his work, despite the…limited information he had been given – really, a pencil mouth?

Although, he had to admit it certainly wasn't the strangest description he'd come across during his time as a sketch artist for the police. For the past few months since he'd started, he'd heard everything from "eyes like a squished praying mantis" to "his hair looked like he got electrocuted then had a five-year-old take a pair of scissors to it." Needless to say, he'd heard his share of obscure, unorthodox descriptions, born from indistinct recollections and imperfect, stress-tainted memories.

But then, that was exactly why Light was so skilled at his job. He had an innate talent for recreating faces and capturing the essence of a person's features, even when the witness was vague or unclear. Combined with his natural charm and ability to put even the most nervous witness at ease, it was no wonder he had snagged the job, even at his young age.

And despite what some nasty people might have whispered about when he was first hired, it had nothing to do with his father's high position within the NPA – not that anyone doubted him now, having had plenty of opportunity to see first-hand his skill.

"Yagami-kun!" a deep, enthusiastic voice called out, breaking through his thoughts, and Light looked up from the penciled face in his hands to the cheerful face of Detective Yoshimoto, headed quickly towards him. "Did you finish with the witness?"

"Yes," Light answered, tearing the sketch out of his pad and handing it over, eyeing Yoshimoto's hands first to make sure they had no blatant mess on them that could transfer to the drawing. "She's in there waiting for you."

"Ah, excellent work," Yoshimoto said, smiling down at the sketched face, which stared blankly back, pencil-mouth and all. "This is the first real lead we've had on this case. I was about ready to pull my hair out before Mochizuki-san came in, claiming she saw a strange man leaving the apartment a few hours before the body was found. Honestly, for a while I thought we were chasing a ghost!" he exclaimed, laughing a little too loudly and standing a little too close. "Four murders and no one's seen hid nor hair of the man – until now, of course."

"You're working on that string of murders in the Aioi apartment complex?" Light asked, feigning interest but mostly just concentrating on inconspicuously shifting his weight so he was out of Yoshimoto's surrounding bubble of cheer.

"Unfortunately," the detective grinned, not looking particularly unfortunate. "I think the stress has taken at least five years off my life."

Light smiled politely, discretely checking his watch. "Well, good luck, Yoshimoto-san. I need to head home now – I've got a paper due tomorrow."

Yoshimoto nodded in understanding, a bright smile on his face. "Of course, Yagami-kun! Have a good evening, huh?"

"You as well." With a final parting nod, Light turned and strode down the hallway, his shoes tapping on the grey tiles and the polite smile sliding from his face. Yoshimoto was…nice, but much too cheerful and free with his friendliness, and Light was always left feeling oddly drained after being faced with man's sheer, dauntless energy. Quite frankly, his presence was exhausting.

Light quickly reached the front doors of the police station, dodging potential conversationalists and sharing a familiar nod with the secretary, and was about to push out into the cool night air when another voiced called out to him.

"Light!"

_Damn_.

Light turned and smiled at his father, who was walking towards him with a small stack of papers tucked in one hand.

"Hey, Dad," he said, inwardly sighing. It wasn't that he didn't like talking to his dad; he was just tired, ready to go home and crash after a long day filled with tedious classes and vague witnesses with nonsensical descriptions.

"Did you just come in for a sketch?"

_No, I came to steal paper clips and write dirty limericks on the bathroom walls._

"Yeah, for Yoshimoto-san's case. They finally got a witness," he answered instead, briefly wondering if he was feeling so snappish because he was tired or because he was hungry.

Probably both, he decided.

Soichiro nodded, absently beginning to flick through the papers in his hand. "Tough case, that one. But Yoshimoto-san's a good detective – not as quick-witted as you, but a solid investigator. I'm sure he'll clear it up in no time."

Light suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. While he knew his dad was as proud of him as ever, always, he also knew he'd never quite given up on his dream of Light following in his footsteps and becoming a detective. And though Light had seriously considered the career, that was one of the reasons he had ultimately decided against it – he didn't want to be forever stuck in his father's shadow.

Even now, his job as forensic artist was a little too close to his father's for comfort, though he only intended to keep it to pay the bills during his time in college.

"Yeah, he is a good detective," Light agreed, pasting on his well-used 'perfect son' smile. "Well, it was really good to see you, Dad, but I better run. I have a paper due tomorrow," he said, repeating the excuse he had used earlier with Yoshimoto.

And it was perfectly true; he did have a paper due tomorrow. That didn't mean, however, that he hadn't already written it.

"Oh, of course," Soichiro said quickly, his eyes softening as he smiled down at Light. "Well, work hard, son. I'm proud of you."

Light smiled back, the expression almost completely genuine this time. "I know. Say hello to Mom and Sayu for me."

"I will. And Light-"

Light paused, about to push through the door.

"-how about you bring that girl you've been seeing to dinner this weekend? You've been dating for two months and we still haven't met her!"

Light grinned sheepishly, pretending to think about it. "I'll ask her," he lied. "But she usually works on the weekends, so it's hard to find a time that works. And we really aren't very serious yet."

"Well alright. But we'd still like to meet her. Goodnight, son," Soichiro said with a fond smile.

"Goodnight, Dad." And Light pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.

As he walked home, grateful as always for the convenient proximity of the station to his apartment, he tried to imagine what would happen if he ever brought the person he was dating home to meet his family. The only word he could come up with to describe the potential situation was 'disastrous'. And possibly 'fatal'.

By the time he reached his apartment, a small but remarkably clean complex within walking distance of his university, he had come up with several highly entertaining (though in reality, they would be terrifying, not entertaining) scenarios in which his family and his lover met, each more explosive than the last. He knew there was no way in hell he'd ever let it happen, but it was worth spending a few fantastical minutes to imagine.

And he had good reason to never let his lover and family within 100 feet of each other. Namely, his lover was loud, his lover was blunt to point of rudeness, his lover was vulgar, and, he concluded as he quietly turned his key in the lock and pushed his door open, his lover was very-

"Light! Jesus, what took you so long? I'm horny as fuck. I think my dick is going to fall off!"

-very male.

Light glared at the blond man sprawled out on his couch like he owned it, one tight, black boot crossed lazily over the other.

Mello was back.

"Mello, get your goddamn boots off my couch. And while that was an utterly charming way to welcome me home, it doesn't make any sense," Light retorted, dropping his backpack on a chair and crossing over to the kitchen. "There's no way your dick can fall off from being too horny. And who says I'm having sex with you tonight? I'm too tired, so why don't you go jack-off in the bathroom and go home?" he suggested moodily, not entirely serious and not entirely joking, as he made his way over to his fridge and pulled out a water bottle.

"Come on, babe," Mello whined. "Don't be such a frigid bitch. I haven't seen you for five days."

"That's not my fault – you're the one with the insane work hours," Light returned, taking a swig of what was supposedly fresh spring water. "And calling me a frigid bitch is definitely not going to increase your chances of getting laid," he added, tossing the bottle on the counter and turning back to dig in the fridge again.

"Bleh," Mello made a face, stretching out on the couch like a large, leather-clad cat. "Don't talk to me about work. I swear my boss is trying to do me in."

Light ignored him and pulled out some leftovers from yesterday's dinner.

Mello had never told him exactly what he did for a living, and Light had never cared enough to press. All he knew was it called for random, odd hours and paid enough for Mello to own a car that cost more than Light's parents' house.

Whatever it was, Light was sure it wasn't entirely legal. And, despite his own job with the police – not to mention his father's – he couldn't quite find it in himself to care what Mello got up to. Their relationship had never been a serious one – that, at least, hadn't been a lie to his father.

Light paused, in the middle of dishing soba into two bowls, and gave Mello a suspicious glance as a sudden thought struck him.

"Mello," he said, eyeing the lanky body on his couch, from the tip of the shimmering, girly blond head to the leather-encased feet still resting obnoxiously on his cushions. "You aren't a prostitute, are you?"

Mello looked momentarily startled, before he let out a bark of laughter and swung himself up off of the couch.

"If I was," he grinned, sauntering towards Light, "just think how much you'd owe me by now."

"Is that a no?" Light questioned dryly, resuming his food dishing.

Mello pressed against Light's back, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Light's shoulder.

"No, I am not a prostitute," he said, somehow making it sound like a verbal eye-roll. "Does this mean we can have sex now?"

"No," Light snapped, swatting away the wandering hands trying to sneak into his pants. "I'm going to have dinner – oh _shit_, hand me a rag, will you? No, they're in the next drawer over…thanks – and then I'm going to bed." Light finished wiping up the bit of food he'd accidentally spilled across the counter, then plucked up his bowl and padded over to his little two-chair table. "I have school tomorrow," he added sternly, though Mello had never shown any sort of consideration for Light's education schedule.

Mello, after grabbing the other bowl of soba, strolled over to the table to lounge in the chair across from Light.

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he said, pinching his chopsticks together experimentally. "Dinner then bed sounds fine to me."

"You know what I mean. Unlike you, I have classes tomorrow, and I actually want to get some sleep before I go."

Light efficiently scooped some noodles into his mouth, taking care not to flick any sauce onto his spotless shirt, and watched as his lover attempted the same task and made a worse mess than a five-year-old.

"You really are hopeless with chopsticks," he said, cringing as a large load of noodles slipped from the sticks and splattered back to Mello's bowl. "How long have you lived in Japan again?"

"Since about two weeks before I met you…so, a little over two months?" Mello answered, squinting up at the ceiling in thought. "And hey, you don't need any utensils to eat chocolate."

He scowled at the noodles as though they'd personally offended him. Light just rolled his eyes, well acquainted with his lover's chocolate addiction.

"You know I have forks too?" Light asked as Mello somehow managed to pick up a single noodle and dangle it into his mouth.

Mello grinned triumphantly as he swallowed his sole success of the meal.

"And then how will I ever learn?" he asked, cocky in his triumph as he tried to repeat the accomplishment.

Light just smirked as Mello's food once more failed to reach his mouth. "I give you three minutes before you give up and get a fork."

Recognizing the challenge for what it was, Mello's eyes gleamed competitively as he smirked right back. "You're on."

"And no using your fingers or just sliding it straight into your mouth," Light clarified. "The food has to go from your bowl to the chopsticks to your mouth."

"Too easy," Mello boasted.

Three minutes later, Mello was still valiantly struggling with the chopsticks but hadn't actually consumed any more of the food. Light just watched, effortlessly eating his own meal, his amusement growing proportionately with Mello's frustration.

Finally, he decided to take pity on him. Leaning casually across the table, he scooped up a bite of Mello's food and held it obligingly in front of the blond's mouth.

"We'll call it a truce," Light said, smiling innocently.

Mello eyed him suspiciously, but accepted the bite into his mouth all the same, his teeth scraping against the plastic of the chopsticks.

Light smirked and reached to wipe Mello's bottom lip softly with his thumb, where a noodle had left behind a drop of sauce. He licked his thumb, his tongue swirling around it then curling back into his mouth, his eyes locked with Mello's.

"You know," Mello said after another mockingly helpful bite, chewing with one side of the mouth and talking with the other, "you can't do something so blatantly sexual and then not have sex tonight."

"Oh really?" Light asked, raising an arched eyebrow. "In that case…" he captured another bite of Mello's food and let it hang for a moment in the air between them. Then, with a smirk, he slipped it casually into his own mouth and settled fully back into his chair. "…I'd better stop, right?"

Mello childishly stuck his tongue out at him. "I'm getting a fork."

Once they both had utensils that didn't result in most of the food ending up on their laps, rather than in their stomachs, the meal was shortly finished up, with the minimal, mandatory teasing and flirting that was integral to their relationship.

After dinner, the dishes were cleaned, Mello automatically helping after weeks of training from his boyfriend.

"So, how long are you going to be around this time before you disappear for days again?" Light asked as he placed the freshly dried bowls into his cupboard.

"Eh," Mello shrugged a careless shoulder, snooping around in Light's fridge and pulling out a jug of juice. "I'm working pretty regular hours this week, but who knows? You know how things pop up."

Light did know, only too well, as he thought back to the many times Mello had been suddenly and unexpectedly called away. He wasn't sure he could even count how many nights (or days) his boyfriend had gotten an apparently urgent call right in the middle of sex and had left Light horny and frustrated, with only his hand for company. It was perhaps the reason Light took such vicious pleasure in denying Mello sex, even though he realized it wasn't exactly the blond's fault.

Mello took a swig of juice straight from the container, causing Light to throw him an annoyed glare.

"Right. Now that you've eaten my food and stuck your boots all over my furniture – you know you're supposed to take them off in Japanese houses, right? – you can go home."

Mello shoved the juice back in the fridge and smirked at Light, then slowly slinked closer. "Come on, Light. You're not really going to make me walk all the way home at his hour," he said, conveniently ignoring the fact that he lived on the floor below Light – hardly a difficult walk. He stole closer, and didn't stop until he was pressed flush against the scowling Light, his hands shamelessly wrapping around to grope at Light's ass. "You're not still mad about last time, are you?"

Smirking blue eyes stared down into Light's – the two were close to the same height, though the blond perhaps had an inch or so on him.

Suddenly Light grinned, his own hands snaking up to play with Mello's hair, pulling himself closer until their mouths were only a few inches apart.

"Mad?" he asked as their breaths mingled, and they both drew in the other's familiar scent. "Why would I be mad?" he half-whispered, one hand slipping around to Mello's lower back to slide beneath the blond's shirt. "It's not as if you took off for the thousandth time, right in the middle of sex." His hand slowly slid higher up the back, pulling Mello's shirt up teasingly with it. "And it's not like it happened right when it was finally my turn to top, either…"

Mello slipped a playful leg between Light's, just a gentle pressure for the moment. "That wasn't my fault, babe," he said, his breath, which always somehow managed to smell like chocolate, brushing softly against Light's lips. "And can I help it you're so damn sexy, especially taking it up the ass?" he said with his usual vulgar eloquence.

Light smirked; he pulled himself closer and closer, until their lips were just a hair's width apart-

-then shoved Mello to the floor and stalked off towards his bedroom, his long fingers already working apart the buttons of his shirt.

"You have no sense of class, decency, or charm, Mello," he called over his shoulder, pausing at the doorway. "I have no idea why I put up with you. Now either get the hell out of my apartment, or get in here and let me fuck you." Then he disappeared into the bedroom without another word.

In the kitchen, Mello picked himself off the floor and, grinning, shucked off his shirt and followed after.

* * *

><p>When Light awoke, his sleep-hazed mind was fleetingly disconcerted by the unexpected darkness which still engulfed the room. The blackness was oppressive, unanticipated, and for a short moment his brain was wildly confused by the deviation from his usual waking pattern.<p>

Then he realized he needed to pee – now.

Shaking the clinging drowsiness from his sleep-addled brain, he rolled to his feet and, grabbing a pair of boxers on his way out, quietly shuffled towards the bathroom, slipping through the darkness with cautious, silent ease. Mello had stayed the night, and Light really didn't want to wake him if it could be avoided, as the blond's mood after waking could range anywhere from extremely pissed off to desperately horny. And as Mello was a surprisingly light sleeper, even the slightest unexpected noise could rouse him at the drop of a hat.

Light, in a rather…peculiar experience, had discovered this in the early days of their relationship, when they had just begun spending entire nights together. Even now, he wasn't entirely sure it hadn't been a dream.

They had been in Mello's apartment, curled up on the enormous bed Mello was stubborn enough to insist upon having and rich enough to afford, which barely even fit in the bedroom. One minute Light had been sleeping peacefully, drained from a particularly vigorous round of sex just a few hours earlier, and the next he had been abruptly pulled into consciousness, a rough hand against his mouth and another at his throat. Two suspicious eyes had narrowed at his sleep-glazed pair, then he'd seen recognition and understanding quickly drive out the suspicion.

"Oh, sorry," Mello's voice, roughened from sleep, had whispered as Light was released, and Light wasn't sure but he vaguely thought he might have seen a flash of silver in the hand at his throat as it was pulled away. "I heard a noise, and I thought…" he'd trailed off, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging as he swung off the bed and soundlessly crept towards the door. "I'll check it out."

Light, still stuck in sleep's muddling embrace and not functioning at a level that would find anything strange or potentially worrying about the situation, had merely rolled over and gone back to sleep. He had woken again, briefly, when Mello had climbed back beneath the covers and muttered something about a clock falling off the wall. He'd then burrowed against Light's shoulder, and the two had slipped back into sleep.

The next morning, the clock had been hanging innocently on the wall once more and neither of them spoke of the odd incident again.

With a sigh of relief, Light slipped into the bathroom – wisely leaving the lights off, saving himself from optical pain and temporary blindness – and quickly emptied his bladder into the toilet.

Mello's sleeping habits rarely disturbed Light, on those nights they chose to spend in each other's company; if anything, it was Mello who was inconvenienced, as he was the one more likely to be bothered by Light's occasional tossings and turnings. And he hadn't complained yet.

Light stole back to the bedroom, hands clean and bladder satisfied. In the dim light, he could make out a lump on the bed that he knew to be Mello, and the deep, rhythmic breathing told him his boyfriend was, surprisingly, still asleep.

The unsympathetic alarm clock on the floor informed him, in faint green light, that it was five o'clock in the morning. He glared at it, but it was not intimidated and refused to change its harsh numbers to something more agreeable.

Light knew he wouldn't be able to get to sleep again – not when he'd only need to wake up again in an hour and half.

Which meant he had some time to kill.

Hovering in the doorway of his bedroom, his slumbering lover sprawled out on his bed, Light considered his options. He could shower – though he really didn't need to for another two hours or so, and why risk waking a possible grumpy Mello up earlier than necessary? He also could study for a criminal psychology test he had next week, despite the fact that he already knew the material backwards and forwards.

Or, he could indulge himself.

Light pretended to think about it a moment longer, but he already knew what he'd decided upon.

Indulgence it was, then.

He padded back out of the bedroom and into the living room, where he clicked on a low-level lamp that wasn't bright enough to disturb Mello down the hall but was still enough for Light to see what he was doing. Then, snagging his sketchbook and drawing pencils out of his backpack from where he'd left it on the sofa, he curled up on the chair beside the lamp and began to think.

His eyes gently closed as his mind began sinking into his memory of yesterday – scanning images of face after face after face.

He remembered Yoshimoto's face, with his slit, cheerful eyes and high eyebrows, and the annoyingly full bottom lip that was at odds with his much thinner top lip. He remembered his father, with his lined mouth and kind eyes, his square jaw and prickly moustache. He remembered the long-chinned man he'd bumped into near the subway, and the button-nosed woman who'd smiled shyly at him on campus.

Each face etched itself into his mind as his well-trained memory filled out every line, curve, detail, and subtle nuance of the people he'd come into contact with yesterday. Beautiful faces, ugly faces, unique faces, bland faces – all types paraded through his memory until he had a veritable circus of humanity gathered within his mind.

Light had…what might be considered an unhealthy obsession with faces. He saw no reason to be embarrassed of this, though he knew some people wouldn't care to understand. But for Light, faces held the key to understanding a person, the key to a person's essence.

And nothing gave him a greater thrill than capturing a person's essence on paper. It was almost a compulsion; when he saw an interesting face he'd sometimes be overcome by the need to immortalize it on paper, to express the tiny details that made it unique.

Faces spoke, even when mouths stayed silent.

He had explained it partially to Mello once, when they both were caught in the afterglow of sex that lowered barriers and invited familiarity. Light had been stretched out by Mello's side, who was sitting propped up against the headboard. He'd softly traced patterns into his lover's stomach, while his eyes were busy studying the unique details and personal touches that made Mello's face his own. Mello had spoken up, asking in his typically blunt manner what the fuck Light found so fascinating.

Light had smirked and said, "I'm looking at your face."

"I can understand the appeal. It's pretty fucking sexy, if you ask me," Mello had grinned smugly.

"And you're a conceited ass. But you do have a very interesting face."

"Do I?"

"Mmm," Light had hummed in agreement, before swinging himself up to suddenly straddle Mello's waist. He'd reached forward, gently brushing all of the blond hair out of Mello's face, the strands pale in the dim light. "The thing about faces," he'd whispered, "is every single one is different. And every single one," he'd let his hands linger in Mello's hair, stroking and playing, "has a different story. A face reflects the person inside. Emotions…those can be faked or masked, but your physical appearance is part of who you are."

"I thought you weren't supposed to judge a book by its cover," Mello had joked, running teasing hands along Light's thighs.

"That may be true about books," Light had smirked back down at him, "but people…are another matter entirely. A person's face is an element of themselves, and as such, it tells you something about them, if only because it's part of what makes them unique, what makes them who they are."

"So what do you see of me in my face?"

"Nothing good," Light had scoffed playfully, his grin wicked and his voice low. "In the line of your nose," his finger had begun softly tracing Mello's slender, pointed nose, "I see your impetuousness. You don't listen well, and you jump into things without thinking. Your eyes," his thumb had begun circling the smirking, deep brown eyes, "reflect how driven by emotions you are. You don't have cool, logical eyes, for all your vaunted and, I admit, considerable intelligence. Your eyes are passionate and volatile, quick to flash in anger or laughter. And your jaw…" Light had breathed, as his finger slipped down to run along Mello's jaw, "…in your jaw, I can see your selfishness and your ego."

He'd leaned down then, twisting Mello's head to the side and letting his mouth lightly play with the blond's ear, whispering and biting and sucking. "You're the type to put your own needs ahead of others'. You think of yourself before anything else."

He'd pulled back and rolled his eyes at the blond. "Basically, you're a self-centered, emotional, impetuous brat, and because I know you I can see it in your face. You act without thinking, and you go after what you want, without considering consequences – and I'm willing to bet that's going to come back and bite you in the ass someday."

Mello had captured Light's wrist, pulling it up to his mouth to run his tongue along on the fingers.

"But," he'd grinned, "I'm a damn _sexy_ self-centered, emotional, impetuous brat. And you like me anyway."

Light had risen an elegant eyebrow and trailed his free hand up Mello's chest, unable to deny it, and then all talk of faces and humanity stopped as they slowly lost themselves in each other's body once more.

Now, tucked up in his living room chair, bathed in the soft glow of the side lamp, Light finally let his pencil kiss the page and began to draw.

This was a habit he'd been indulging in ever since he'd first begun drawing, and it was as much of a memory exercise as it was a way to practice his art. It was a test for himself, a way to see how well he could remember and then reproduce faces he'd seen, even the faces of random strangers that only wandered into his life by chance and then wandered out just as quickly.

He started on an easy one: his father. It was a face he'd seen his entire life, one that was as familiar to him as his own – maybe even more familiar. But now, he focused on how it had looked yesterday – the stressed, slightly frazzled look in his eyes that meant he was in the middle of a particularly worrying case, countered by the warm, gentle smile on his face as he talked to his only son.

Next was Yoshimoto. He was easy as well, if only because he almost always looked exactly the same – cheerful and determined and dauntlessly, surprisingly capable. His essence and personality were displayed in the eager lines of his face, his bright, happy eyes, and his firm, dependable jaw; Light carefully and meticulously captured them all on paper.

He moved on to other faces, faces that required more thought and effort, faces he'd only seen for a moment or so before they walked out of his life forever.

Gradually, all sense of self and time were forgotten as he lost himself within the sweeping strokes and tiny dashes of his pencil. His mind was consumed, everything else inconsequential.

Sometimes, drawing faces was just as much of a release for him as sex.

Eventually, Light was so absorbed with his task, etching and brushing and remembering, that he didn't notice as Mello shuffled down the hallway, half-heartedly pulling on his clothes from yesterday, until he was leaning over his shoulder and whispering right in his ear.

"You know you're still in your underwear, right?"

Light looked down and discovered that yes, he was still clad only in a pair of black boxers. Huh.

"Not that I'm complaining, by any means," Mello assured, eyeing the smooth lines of Light's torso and toned legs. Then he noticed the sketchbook balanced on Light's knee. "Drawing again?"

"Mm-hm," Light merely hummed, squinting towards the kitchen to figure out what time it was. Six twenty-eight. He ought to be getting in the shower soon.

"These are nice," Mello murmured, plucking up the sketchbook and flipping through the pages, tucking blond hair behind his ear as he studied the faces. "Who are they?"

"Hm? Oh, just people," Light answered, standing and stretching out stiff muscles. "You want breakfast, or do you need to get going?"

"Mm…I got work, but thanks. Are these people you've seen or made up?" he asked, turning over a page.

"Seen, for the most part," Light answered, strolling over to the kitchen to make some coffee. Had he looked back, he would have seen a shocked expression spread across his lover's face as he stared down at the sketchbook in his hands. But he hadn't, so he didn't.

And because he was busy fishing coffee out of the cupboard, he didn't notice the strange, barely perceptible note in Mello's otherwise casual voice as he asked, "Where did you see this one?"

Light looked back then, squinting across the room to where Mello was holding up the sketchbook, pointing to one of the etched faces.

It was a re-sketch he had done of the man he'd drawn earlier for the witness in the Aioi murder case – the pencil-mouth man.

"Oh," he answered, turning back to his coffee preparations. "I actually didn't see that one. That one's from a description a witness gave yesterday; I just did it again for practice. You want coffee before you go?"

"Nah, I'm good." Mello dropped the sketchbook on the end table, then sauntered over to where Light was flipping on the coffee maker. "My boss'll have my balls if I'm late." He pressed against Light's back, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. "Good to see you again, babe. I can't come tonight, but see you tomorrow?"

"Mm…probably not," Light answered distractedly, leaning against the other, his hand reaching back to play with Mello's hair. "There's a guest professor giving a lecture tomorrow night at the university, and I need to attend for one of my classes. Some big shot psychologist with more doctorates than anyone knows what to do with."

"Okay. I guess I'll see you and your ass Friday." Then Mello slapped Light's ass and headed towards the door before he could react, a satisfied smirk on his face and a swagger in his step.

Light rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of coffee.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Concerning the pairing of Mello and Light… I considered it, laughed my head off, then decided I liked it. Don't worry; as I said before, this will eventually be LxLight. On a slightly related note, think how well their names go together – Mello and Light! Doesn't it make you think of happy, easy-going, sunshiny things? How delightfully inappropriate for those two!<em>

_And there's foreshadowing in this chapter! Up there, did you see it? Of course, it might be too subtle to pick up, or it could be the equivalent of me chucking a brick at all of the readers' foreheads; I have no perspective._

_Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you think._


	2. Chance Encounters and Family Dinners

**Chapter Two**

_Chance Encounters and Family Dinners_

* * *

><p><em>Thursday<em>

Light, a very efficient person by nature, had only contempt for those who wasted time.

More accurately, that was to say, he had only contempt for those who wasted _his_ time.

Perhaps it was arrogant of him, but then, he had never claimed to be otherwise. His time was valuable, so if someone was going to impose themselves on him they better be damn sure to make it worth his while.

Unsurprisingly, in light of this admittedly self-centered philosophy, he had made it a habit to never show up to anything a second earlier than necessary, whether it be an important exam or a lunch date with a friend. And accordingly, this was the reason he arrived to the guest lecture Thursday night barely a minute before it started. It meant he wouldn't get a very good seat, but since he didn't particularly care about what the professor had to say and was only attending because a class required it, this was a small matter.

But more importantly, if he hadn't arrived when he did, he never would have seen the most fascinating face he had yet stumbled upon, or the strange man who bore it.

It was a chance encounter, a brief moment at the back of the lecture hall as they both tried to slip through the same door at the same time, Light entering and he exiting, resulting in knocked shoulders and muttered apologies. Their eyes had met, locking for just a second or so in time, before the stranger had averted his gaze and shuffled quickly away, leaving Light with stunned eyes and a twitching artist's hand.

A meeting of only a few seconds, insignificant and unremarkable, but suddenly all Light wanted was to chase after the stranger, to hold him down and just stare at him, and had he not been at the back of a crowded lecture about to begin he might have done just that.

That face was unlike any he'd seen before. It was like something out of a fairytale – something dark and twisted and fascinatingly haunting with an odd touch of innocence and childishness. It was a face that looked both powerful and crippled, and Light wasn't quite sure how.

But he was consumed by the sudden need to draw it.

He slipped into a seat at the back, completely tuning out the warm introduction given the visiting professor, and hurriedly dug through his backpack to withdraw his pad and pencil. Then, he closed his eyes and tried to remember.

He remembered black, glassy eyes that might have seemed empty, but Light had seen the flicker of _something_ past the inky surface, something that hinted at bottomless pools and hidden, dangerous depths. He remembered sleepless dark lines beneath even darker eyes, a pointed chin and a slender, slightly upturned nose. He remembered the mass of messy black hair, a few strands spilling down into the eyes and the rest at odd angles all over the head, and he remembered pale lips pressed together in a thin line.

It was a face of contrasts, all translucent skin against pitch eyes – eyes innocently wide yet piercing and intense. Certainly not an attractive face by conventional standards, but…still bizarrely beautiful, with something that captured Light's attention and refused to let go until he captured it in turn on paper.

And so he drew.

He hardly heard a word of the lecture given by the stooped, balding old psychologist with a wheezy voice, but it didn't matter. All that mattered were those sharp black eyes and that sloped nose and that thin mouth that _he couldn't seem to draw._

Regardless of how many times he erased and began again, regardless of how many times he scribbled out a half-finished attempt and flipped in frustration to a fresh page, he just couldn't get it right. Nothing did the face justice; nothing captured the unique flash of _something_ he had barely caught a glimpse of before it disappeared.

It was maddening.

It was maddening, but he couldn't complete the drawing, for perhaps the first time in his life.

He needed to see the face again.

* * *

><p><em>Friday<em>

"You've been moping all fucking day, babe. What's up?"

Light glared at his boyfriend over the top of his glass of Asahi beer, which he technically wasn't old enough to drink for another year or so but was able to get because the bartender was discreet and a friend.

Yes, he knew he was acting a little bitchy, but he was upset, damn it. The most interesting face he'd seen in years – if _ever_ – and it was gone, slipped out of his fingertips without a single glance back.

He thought he deserved a little moping.

Mello, on the stool beside him, seemed supremely unconcerned by his daggered look and simply tossed back a gulp of his own drink - a chocolaty, girly concoction that made Light gag whenever he so much as glanced at it. Only Mello could make a Godiva Chocolate Martini look masculine. And only Mello could convince the bartender to actually make him one without any funny looks at his ambiguously male appearance.

"C'mon," Mello said, wiping chocolate away from his mouth with a casual hand. "Just tell me, so I can get you drunk, home and laid. You're no fun when you're acting like a chick with PMS."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now drink up and spill. What's wrong?"

Light made an annoyed sound and took a sip of his drink. The dim lighting in the bar was beginning to hurt his eyes, and no matter how much he drank he couldn't forget his frustration from yesterday's encounter and subsequent failed drawings.

"Remember that lecture I had to go to yesterday?" he asked, eyeing Mello out of the corner of his eye. At his nod, he continued, "On the way in I ran into this guy, and I only caught a glimpse of him, but he had the most…god, the most interesting face I've ever seen – so I wanted to draw it."

Mello nodded again, familiar by now with his boyfriend's itchy fingers whenever he saw an out-of-the-ordinary face.

"But I just _couldn't do it_," Light sighed, a rush of angry air as he squeezed his glass a little harder than strictly necessary in frustration_._ "It kept coming out _all_ wrong." He scowled down into his drink like it was responsible for all his problems in life, including mysterious strangers with fascinating faces who disappeared without a trace. "Maybe if I saw his face again…"

"Do you want to fuck him or something?" Mello asked, leaning an elbow on the counter and resting his chin in his hand, one eyebrow quirked in interest. "'Cause I might have an issue with that. You'd have to at least invite me to join in."

Light rolled his eyes and drained the rest of his glass. "Since when did drawing someone's face become synonymous with fucking? Besides, you know I don't check out people when I'm dating someone – unlike you, jackass," he added with an annoyed glance beneath thick lashes. "You've been eyeing that guy in the blue jacket all night, don't even deny it."

"Mmm… and the girl next to him," Mello hummed, grinning. "She's got some damn fine legs, don't you think?" he asked as he shamelessly ran his eyes up and down the slender limbs. "Not as nice as yours, 'cause yours are more toned and defined, but for a chick they're pretty good."

"This is why I hate dating bisexuals," Light replied dryly, with a bit of bite to his tone. "They're twice as likely to cheat."

Despite Light's words, he wasn't particularly concerned – or surprised – about Mello's behavior, having known quite well Mello's liberal sexual nature when they started dating; after all, when they first met, Mello had been trying to pick up two girls at the same time, while under the table he felt up the guy sitting next to him. Light had joined the group, arriving a little late to meet up with his current boyfriend at the time, who was a friend of one of the girls and the one person at the table safe from Mello's attentions.

When Light showed up he'd immediately been added to the blond man's _To Seduce_ list - at least until Mello had realized Light was taken and grudgingly had stopped trying to run his foot up Light's leg.

The two of the them had, however, discovered they lived in the same apartment complex, and two weeks later they'd gotten together, Light having broken up with his boyfriend – who was beginning to get boring and a little too serious about the relationship – and Mello looking for the convenience of an easy, steady relationship.

It was a casual affair, based on sex, convenience, and the fact that they each were attracted to the other and weren't driven insane by the other's conversation. They both knew it wouldn't last – nor did either want it to. Mello wasn't one to be tied down for long, and Light wasn't interested in a serious relationship with someone for whom he felt no strong emotional connection. He had gotten close to Mello, yes – it was hard to fuck someone for two months and not feel a little close – but he certainly didn't love him and didn't think he ever would.

And he had no doubt Mello felt the same.

In fact, Light couldn't see himself really loving and spending a considerable portion of his life with _anyone_ he'd met yet. He was a picky person and not ashamed of the fact, and he lost interest in people quickly. Mello was one of the longer relationships he'd ever been in, probably because not only did he look dead sexy in leather, but he also was one of the few people he'd met who could actually keep up with his conversation and not bore Light to tears.

Light had made it clear from the beginning he wouldn't stand cheating - and they hadn't had any problems so far, despite Mello's apparent inability to keep his libido in check.

Mello, at least, was honorable about his romantic deviance. He never seriously went after someone in a relationship, and, regardless of his roving, admiring eyes, he wasn't one to soberly consider infidelity when in a relationship himself. And Light knew if Mello ever _did_ cheat on him – which would no doubt happen when Mello was drunk and horny and not thinking – he'd be too straightforward to try to hide it.

Beside him at the bar, Mello swirled his drink. "You know, you sound very cynical when you phrase it that way. Bisexual people aren't twice as likely to cheat; we just have twice the opportunity. And I wouldn't cheat on you, babe," he assured, running his hand up Light's thigh in a manner far from innocent. "But there's nothing wrong with admiring from a distance."

Mello tried proving his point by grinning lecherously at a passing guy's ass, his fingers working suggestively closer to in between Light's legs, and Light supplied damage control by glaring icily at the man as he paused and raised an inviting eyebrow back, his eyes flicking appreciatively over Mello before resting on Light with obvious evocative intent.

Light maintained his death gaze, and the man shrugged and continued on his way.

Of course Mello would have picked the one other gay man in the bar to check out, then smile at him in a way that could easily be taken as 'Hey! Wanna fuck me and my boyfriend?'

"Hmm, he was checking you out, babe. Betcha he would've gone for a threesome."

And then made it clear he wasn't exactly opposed to the idea.

"Not interested," Light said, his tone dry as he shook off the blond's wandering hand. "You're a complete ass, Mello. You're lucky I actually put up with you. Just finish up that disgusting swill you call a drink, and let's go. I want to fuck until I can't remember those stupid black eyes and that stupid pointed nose and that stupid face that won't be drawn."

Mello dumped the rest of his drink down his throat, faster than Light thought particularly healthy, and stood. "Finally. Honestly, babe, you shouldn't be allowed to be in such a bitchy mood when you're wearing a those jeans. The mixed messages you send are not even close to funny. Whose place?"

"Mine, unless you got those chocolate stains out of your sheets," Light answered, standing and tossing some money down on the counter, a little more than necessary and with a nod towards his bartender friend.

"Yours it is."

Then Mello slipped his hand in his and pulled him out into the night, and eventually all thought of intense black eyes that stubbornly refused to be recreated were forced out of his mind in the heat and passion of two lovers entwining.

* * *

><p><em>Saturday<em>

"You going home to your folks' place this weekend, babe?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. I haven't visited for a few weeks."

"Damnit, that means I won't see you until Wednesday. Can I come along tomorrow? We could fuck on your parent's couch."

"I don't think you'd survive long enough - my dad carries a gun, you know. You working tonight? And don't eat that on my bed, ass, you get stains all over."

"Tonight, Monday, and probably Tuesday. And I'm not a kid, I know how to eat without making a mess."

"The state of your own sheets says otherwise."

"I'm a lot messier when I eat off _you_."

"I can't believe I let you do that."

"Mm…believe it, babe. That feels good, by the way. Don't stop."

"What – me playing with your hair?"

"Mm-hm. Your hands are really soothing, probably from how much you draw."

"Hm."

"Hey Light, have you ever tried painting?"

"Yeah, I took a class once, but I wasn't very good. I work much better with charcoal and lead. And stop trying to turn that sentence into something dirty – I can see that look in your eye, and it won't work."

"You underestimate me and my dirty mind."

"I'm rather scared if that's true. Mmm…alright, I'm going to shower now. I have stuff to do and I can't spend all day in bed, appealing as that sounds. Hey, hey, get off – weren't you listening?"

"C'mon, babe, just once more. I'm not going to see your ass for a few days."

"Tough…_ngh_…luck. Get your mouth off of there, Mello, I need to shower."

"Shower sex works too."

"You're getting chocolate all over me! Don't even think about- _aah…_"

"Yes, what were you saying?"

"…_Mmhnn…_"

"You wanted me to get up, right, babe?"

"Mello, get your damn mouth back here and finish what you started."

"I thought you'd see it my way."

"Just shut up and suck."

* * *

><p><em>Sunday<em>

Light pushed open the door to his childhood home, the familiar, comforting aroma of home-cooked food washing over him. He let the door slip shut behind him and stepped softly into the kitchen, where he found his mother, her dark hair tidily pinned back, busy stirring soup and cooking eggs as she hummed happily to herself.

"Light!" she called out as she noticed his figure out of the corner of her eye, and she quickly wiped her hands on her apron before pulling him into a tight hug. "You're early! Your father isn't even home yet."

Light wrapped an arm around her, inhaling the well-remembered scent of ginger and cloves that seemed to perpetually cling to her body. As he was released he grinned, slipping easily into the well-worn persona he used with his family.

"If you'd like, I could leave and come back in twenty minutes."

"Don't be silly. You can never come home too early." Sachiko swatted her son affectionately, then quickly turned back to her eggs as she realized they were dangerously close to burning. "How's school going, honey?" she asked, flipping the eggs and saving them from a blackened demise.

Light leaned against the counter and grabbed an apple, red and bright and perfectly round, from the nearby bowl and began tossing it casually from hand to hand.

"School's fine," he answered, watching the ruby fruit gleam as it spun through the air. "Just busy, as usual."

"And how's your girlfriend – Mel, isn't it? Such an odd name."

"Mel's doing fine as well. And I told you she was foreign – her name isn't unusual where she comes from." Light was so accustomed to hiding things from his parents, that sometimes he almost forgot he was lying, particularly when the lie was so close to the reality. It was merely a different version of the truth.

"Oh, that's right." His mother bustled over to the soup, sniffing and stirring. "It's a very pretty name. Are we going to meet her any time soon?"

"I don't know, Mom. We'll see." Light set the apple back among its fellows, inwardly rolling his eyes.

Loving and supportive his parents might have been, but subtle they were not. Both were a little too eager for the day he'd marry a nice girl and start pumping her full of babies, and he didn't want to be the one to shatter their delusions. Besides, they always had Sayu for grandkids.

At least neither of his parents expected him to be getting married any time _soon_ – he was about a month away from nineteen and still had years before they could reasonably expect that. Hopefully by then their grandchild zeal would be satisfied by his sister.

"Where's Sayu?" he asked as his thoughts turned to his younger sibling. Sayu liked to call and pester him at particularly annoying times, trying to get him to come home more often, so he figured that he might as well invest some of the time he was here in pacifying her. All his family wished he'd visit more, but Sayu was the most vocal and therefore the first threat to be neutralized.

If he put the time in now, they would leave him alone later.

"She's up in her room, supposedly working on her homework," Sachiko answered, sliding some freshly sliced green onions into the pot on the stove. "Would you mind telling her to come down in a few minutes and help me set the table?"

Light nodded, already headed towards the stairs. He climbed them quickly, but he took a moment to run an eye over the familiar family photos hanging on the walls, unchanged for at least the past nine years, a little startling in the wave of memories they brought. He'd used those photos the first time he tried drawing people he actually knew, when he first tried to put a personality he was familiar with in a drawing.

Sayu's door was closed. Not bothering to knock, he turned the knob and pushed it open.

Inside, he found his fifteen-year-old sister seated at her desk, bobbing her head happily to the music streaming from the earphones (and obviously avoiding the stack of homework on the corner of her desk). She noticed him almost immediately.

"Light!" she yelled with a bright smile, whipping off the earphones and jumping up to attack him with a hug. "How's my gay big brother?"

Light winced and quickly shut the door.

"I'm fine, Sayu. Would you mind keeping your voice down? Mom's just downstairs."

"Oh, sorry Light." Sayu grinned sheepishly, tucking her hair behind her ear almost compulsively. "I'm just really happy to see you."

Light just smirked and flicked her nose on his way to lounge on her bed, and Sayu scowled jokingly and settled back into her desk, plugging one earphone back in with a smile.

He had never necessarily intended to inform Sayu of his sexuality, having seen no reason to do so, but when she had accidentally walked in on him making out with a boy from school when he was sixteen, he hadn't been too concerned. He had known she could keep a secret, despite her cheerful, talkative personality and young age – especially if he was the one asking.

And she had proven him right. In the just under three years since it had happened, she had never once let anything slip to their parents, whether by accident or design. As little sisters went, she was pretty tolerable, despite her irritating persistence in demanding he visit home.

"So, Light, how's the boy-toy?"

The bizarre eagerness with which she nosed into his love life, however, he could have done without.

"Mello's fine," he said, giving her an exasperated glance as he noticed her giggling slightly and biting her lip, though he was used by this point to her antics whenever his boyfriend was mentioned.

"Hey!" Her chair squeaked gratingly as she bounced in excitement. "Do you think I could meet him ever? I promise I'll be good!"

Light considered quickly, trying to imagine just how such a meeting would go and deciding it wasn't too likely to end in disaster. "Maybe. If you're ever at my apartment without Mom and Dad and if he's around, you could meet him. I think you two would get on horrifyingly well."

"Yes!" she cheered, her face brightening in what Light considered to be unwarranted delight. "You know, you've dated him pretty long for your standards. He must be pretty special. Too bad Mom and Dad won't get to meet him…"

"Nah," Light leaned back against her pillows. "They wouldn't like him very much. And Mello's great, but we're not serious."

"Yeah, yeah, you're never serious, with any of your boyfriends," Sayu sighed, her dark eyebrows pulling together in an exasperated frown over her rolling eyes. "Don't you ever want to, you know, fall in love or something? Life seems so depressing otherwise."

Light tried hard not to return eye roll for eye roll; this was a familiar conversation, one he'd had several times before with his romantic teenage sister.

"You've been watching too many chick-flicks. Falling in love isn't such a big deal. It certainly doesn't guarantee happiness – if anything, it makes you more likely to be miserable."

Sayu's frown etched deeper on her face. "That's really pessimistic."

"No, it's realistic," Light corrected, fluffing the pillow behind him and leaning his head comfortably back into his hands, gazing up at her ceiling. "Maybe someday I'll meet someone I find interesting enough to fall in love with, but if not, then I'm completely satisfied with my life as it is. I don't need someone else to make me happy." His mouth formed the words he'd said many times before, words convenient for getting his idealistic sister off his case, words that brushed up familiarly against his true sentiments.

In reality, Light had no intentions for romance. He had too many plans for life to concern himself with something as uncertain and energy-draining as love, and, more importantly, he was too independent to even consider becoming reliant on another person's presence in his life to be happy. The thought made him want to shudder.

Behind all that, however, he was aware of the potential of a _perhaps._ _Perhaps_ if he ever met someone able to keep up with him, _perhaps_ if he ever found someone he could envision sharing life with, _perhaps_ if he one day woke up and found himself a sentimental sap with an inexplicable need to connect on a level deeper than he ever had with anyone before…

Yeah, it sounded silly to him too. And exhausting.

Sayu's opinions on love, however, had always been another matter.

"Ugh, that's so practical and unromantic!"

"Exactly."

"But I guess it makes sense, a little," Sayu admitted grudgingly. "If you can't make yourself happy, no one else will, right? It's still depressing. Anyway, if you ever fall in love, it'd have to be someone pretty smart, huh? Otherwise you'd get bored really quickly. So just go find the smartest person in the world, and you'll be set! Or at least someone really cute."

"That narrows the field down a bit, doesn't it?"

Light dodged as a pencil was hurled in his direction and smirked as it landed against a pillow with a soft _thud._ Sayu pulled a nasty face, and a comfortable silence fell over the two siblings, both pitying the other for their views on love.

Then Sayu asked, her voice unusually serious, "Do you think you'll ever tell them? Mom and Dad, I mean."

"What – that I'm gay?" Light asked, thrown by the sudden change of direction.

Sayu nodded.

"I don't know…maybe," Light shrugged, unconcerned and getting bored of the conversation. His obligatory sibling interaction quota was close to being fulfilled.

"Oh," Sayu said quietly, her voice soft and still oddly serious. A pause, then: "I think they'd like to know. I don't think they'd be mad. You should tell them."

"Yeah, I'll think about it," Light lied, knowing full well he had no intention to tell them any time soon. "Anyway, Mom wanted you to go downstairs and help her."

"Oh! All right," Sayu jumped up, the rare serious expression banished from her face and replaced with her usual smile as she practically skipped towards the door. "Are you coming down now, too?" she asked, pausing in the hallway.

"In a minute." Light swung up from the bed and casually headed out of the room as well, his hands finding his pockets. "I'm going to pick up a book from my room first."

"Okay!"

To save himself the bother of packing around all his things, Light had left behind a lot of his unnecessary possessions to be stored in his old room while he attended college. It was much more convenient, and if he ever needed something, his parent's home was only a short rail ride away.

He entered his old room, casting out the darkness with a flick of a switch. It was tidy, as it had ever been, and he could tell his mother came in to dust and vacuum regularly. But the room had an unmistakable air of emptiness, making it obvious no one had lived there for a while – or maybe it was just because he knew the room had been unoccupied recently.

Strolling to his bookshelf, he began idly scanning the titles and let his mind muse over his conversation with Sayu.

Despite what he had told her, he had no intention to tell his parents he was gay, at least for quite some time. It wasn't that he was ashamed, or because he was afraid of their reactions – he knew they wouldn't be angry.

They might be disappointed, though even then, they wouldn't be disappointed in _him_, just in the lack of a potential daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Light doubted there was much he could do to make his parents truly upset with him at this point, short of perhaps becoming a mass murderer; he had spent too long refining his image as the perfect son.

He knew, with time, they would become as supportive as ever – that wasn't why he didn't want to tell them.

He chose to keep his sexuality a secret merely for simplicity's sake. Informing his parents he was gay would bring with it tedious questions, embarrassing discussions, and unwanted invasion of his privacy.

It was much easier – simpler – to leave his parents in the dark, happy in their ignorance, rather than deal with the consequences of destroying some of their cherished familial dreams, however quickly they may get over it. Besides, he had worked too hard on his image as the ideal Japanese son to damage it with something as inconsequential as sexuality. Not that sexuality was inconsequential to him; he just didn't see how it should concern his parents what exactly he did with his dick.

Or other people's dicks, for that matter.

A door opened below, followed by a pair of firm footsteps – the familiar sound which had always heralded the arrival of the head of the house. Light's father was home.

He could hear the muted exclamations and murmurs of the women of the family welcoming Soichiro home, and Light knew it meant dinner was only a few minutes away. So, he quickly found the book he had been trying to find – an old reference book of his he had used in high school and now needed for a paper – and swiftly left, snuffing out the light and leaving his old bedroom undisturbed in its emptiness once more.

* * *

><p>Talk at dinner, filled with the happy chatter of his mom and sister and the subdued rumble of his father, soon turned to the topic it frequently did whenever Light was home: his father's work.<p>

This evening, however, it concerned a subject Light found a bit more interesting than the usual policeman's gossip or banal, petty cases which his father customarily mentioned.

"L is taking over the Aioi case."

Light looked up from his plate swiftly. "Are you serious?" he asked, his eyes narrowed and his tone sharp. "Why would L be interested in such an insignificant case? There have only been, what – four, five murders so far?"

"Mm-hm," Soichiro answered, nodding and quietly chewing his food. "Five. I understand your surprise; it was quite a shock for us as well. But L didn't explain why he was interested, or how he even heard about the case. We just got an email informing us L was taking over, and if we could please send all information we had gathered thus far. We weren't even completely sure it was him at first, as he's rarely contacted us, but he flashed all the correct clearance codes so we didn't exactly have a choice. Everything checked out, and L has jurisdiction over any cases he wants."

L. The anonymous super-detective known only by a single letter, supposedly solving impossible cases across the globe without ever showing his face.

Light had always been a little intrigued by the mysterious detective, ever since, out of sheer boredom, he had first begun hacking into his father's NPA files when he was barely into his teens. At that time, L had just been a whisper of a myth, an urban legend serving as fodder for coffee break gossip in police stations around the world. Now, L was a well-known name, his respect and credibility having grown exponentially over the years, though his anonymity had remained as solid as ever.

And now L was in Japan, apparently taking the Aioi apartment case. Interesting.

Though, had Light been in charge of the investigation, as Yoshimoto was, he would have been extremely pissed off if L tried to muscle in on his case in such a heavy-handed manner, famous detective or not. But Light was just a police sketch artist and not involved in investigation, and Yoshimoto, the cheery sod, had probably just smiled and helpfully sent along all his data without question.

Sent all his data… That included Light's…

"Did Yoshimoto-san send the sketch from the witness's account as well?"

"Of course. Actually, L specifically requested we send the sketch of the suspect as soon as possible. You should be pleased, knowing L has seen your work."

Light felt a jolt of paranoia, though he knew it was ridiculous. There was no way L could have recognized the style… Could he?

No, he was being silly. L was just interested in the sketch because it had the face of the suspect, nothing more. He was worrying for nothing. There was no way L even cared who the NPA's forensic artist was, let alone suspected him of anything criminal. And Light had covered his tracks well.

He was being unnecessarily paranoid.

Light pushed his food around his plate, his gaze lowered and his hair slipping easily to hide his eyes, nodding as his sister began chattering about some boy at school that supposedly had been flirting with her during maths class. Outwardly, he gave every appearance of polite listening, but inside his mind was buzzing.

Why had L taken an interest in the Aioi case? How had it even come to his attention?

And, more importantly, was there another reason besides the obvious he had specifically wanted that sketch?

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Yesterday, in an unexpected turn of events, Japanese teenage heartthrob Hideki Ryuga announced his intention to star in the upcoming-"<strong>_

"Sayu, turn that off, honey. Light's visiting – you can watch television later."

"But-"

"It's okay, Mom. I need to be heading home soon anyway."

"Oh, so soon? Well it was good to see you, dear. Next time bring Mel along with you!"

"We'll see."

"_**-In other news, reclusive private art collector Aldric Scholz recently added a rare Monet masterpiece to his collection, which will be on loan to the-"**_

"See you, Light! Hey, do you have any sketches for me?"

"Not this time, Sayu. I've been pretty busy. Later, okay?"

"Okay…"

"Oh, goodnight, son."

"See you, Dad."

"Call me when you get to your apartment, so I know you're safe!"

"I'll be fine, Mom. Thanks for dinner; it was delicious."

"Bye…! Oh dear, I wish he'd visit more often. I worry about him sometimes."

"He'll be fine, Sachiko. He's a good boy."

"I know, but a mother always worries. It's hard seeing him leave and grow up."

"_**That's right! Just call this toll-free number and order your very own-"**_

"Turn that off, Sayu. I know for a fact you still have homework tonight."

"But, Mom…"

"No complaining, please. Turn it off."

_**Click.**_

* * *

><p><em>Monday<em>

Cars droned loudly as they whizzed past, headlights blurring and tires spraying rainwater. Light walked slowly home, his umbrella clutched loosely in his hand, his backpack pulled tightly against him to stay within the umbrella's protective circle.

He felt a sense of contentment, a quiet satisfaction that always settled over him when he got a lot of work done.

His final class of the day had been canceled unexpectedly, his professor called away for some sort of family emergency – and as there had been no sketch work for him down at the station, he'd had quite a bit of time today to use as he liked.

And he'd certainly put that time to productive use.

Light closed his umbrella up as he reached the covered stairs of his apartment complex, shaking water drops from black plastic then strapping it up tightly. As he did, he noticed a fleck of dark red on his thumb.

Damn. He'd missed a spot, it seemed, despite his through hand-washing earlier.

Paint was always a bitch to get out.

He rubbed at his right shoulder as he slowly climbed the stairs, sore from the day's work. His shoes made a soft _tap, tap_ against the concrete, almost drowned out by the rain drumming on the roof overhead.

As he reached Mello's floor, he automatically threw a glance down towards his boyfriend's window, checking for any light sneaking through the cracks in the blinds.

He knew Mello had work today, but sometimes he got off earlier than expected. It had happened several times before, where the blond had announced he'd be gone then had shown up in Light's kitchen, unexpected and horny, saying work was finished earlier than planned and did Light want to fuck now?

And it seemed tonight was one of those nights, as there was a steady light visible behind the barrier of Mello's front blinds – which was good, because Light was feeling particularly pleased with today's work and was in the mood for a slow, celebratory fuck. He hoped Mello would be up for some sex too – but that was ridiculous, because Mello was always up for some sex.

He stepped softly down towards Mello's door, smiling slightly as he realized he'd finally get revenge for all the times Mello had burst in unexpectedly on him, more often than not at inconvenient times and demanding sex. Light had occasionally arrived unannounced at Mello's before, though not nearly as frequently as the blond did to him, so it would be nice to pay him back a bit.

He turned the knob, glad it was unlocked as he didn't exactly have a key with him at the moment. He paused, suddenly listening, then quietly pushed the door open.

Across the smoke-filled room, bottles of what looked to be expensive vodka scattered around the floor, his eyes met Mello's stunned pair. He idly noted their muddled haze, induced from alcohol and lust, then slowly trailed his eyes downwards, along Mello's exposed chest and sweaty stomach, all the way down to the giggling brunette sprawled on the other half of Mello's body, her mouth still obliviously wrapped around Mello's cock.

A single word dropped from the blond's mouth as he stared back at Light, the drunken stupor clearing just a little from his eyes.

"_Shit_."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: "Just shut up and suck." My new catch phrase. It's handy in any conversation.<em>

Etched_ is brought to you today in part by __**massive**__ amounts of prickly pear tea. I mean __**massive**__. I think I peed for an hour. Straight._

_Now then. Lots of little plot clues in this chapter, which I hope I've made noticeable. If not, it's my fault and you can all send annoyed messages telling me to get my act together. If you're a little confused with what's going on, don't worry. All will be made clear soon (I hope). Unless you're confused about something you're not supposed to be confused about - then I'm in trouble. So feel free to ask questions! And tell me what you think! I'll let you know if something is plot or if it's just poor writing._

_Half of this chapter was written in a really bitchy mood because my laptop cord broke, and I am now stuck borrowing computers until a new one arrives. Meh._

_Reviewers - I love you. In a non-creepy way, I assure you._

_Thanks for reading._


	3. Detectives and Endings

**Chapter Three**

_Detectives and Endings_

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday<em>

L, as a general rule, had an unusually busy mind.

This should hardly have come as any surprise, as L had been working as the greatest detective in the world (a title not to be taken lightly) for over a decade. And, for not quite as long, after snatching the titles (and names) for safety purposes, he also had the pleasure of referring to himself as the second and third greatest detectives in the world.

A healthy ego came with the job.

Unfortunately, it also came with a substantial amount of responsibilities and worries.

That was why cake had been invented.

But yes, L had a considerable amount on his mind at any given moment in time. Currently, the matter of the most importance and the subject currently occupying the top twelve floors of his brain was the matter of his subordinates.

Had it been L's decision – and one would think it would have been considering the fact he was _the greatest detective in the world_ – he wouldn't have had underlings working directly with him. Yes, it came in handy to have capable proxies to send out into the world and do grunt work, but it also meant he had to put up with them on a regular basis, not to mention concern himself with their training.

Unfortunately, it wasn't L's choice. It was Watari's. Watari, who thought the successors had reached an age old enough to be trained by L himself.

L had protested, claiming he could hardly work on cases and _save the world_ if he was busy looking after three budding detectives (or rather, two budding detectives and one tag-along hacker), but Watari had pulled out the stern face he'd always used when L was a cake-sneaking child and insisted the three boys be allowed to work with him, lest complete havoc be wreaked worldwide.

One did not, Watari scolded, just let three young geniuses, especially Wammy-trained geniuses, out into the world willy-nilly. That was how wars were started.

So L was stuck. He was actually quite fond of all three of his successors, despite his poor-natured grumping, but it had taken some time to adjust to working in close quarters with them and their considerable quirks.

Now, three years later, he had become somewhat accustomed to working with the boys, though they were hardly young enough to be called just boys anymore – Mello and Matt had both already left their teens behind, and Near wasn't too far away from doing the same.

It helped that L was allowed to boss them around and that he could delegate less absorbing cases to their (sometimes) obedient hands.

At the moment, the four were all working together on a single case, tackling an international smuggling ring reaching from Japan to Hawaii to mainland America, flowing drugs into the US and firearms into the waiting hands of the yakuza in Japan. It wasn't a particularly difficult case, just one that took a fair amount of time and tedious digging – digging L was happy to push off on the boys. For the sake of training, of course.

It wasn't until a few days ago that they realized the smuggling case had recently become a murder case, a fact they had only stumbled upon through pure chance.

L supposed this was why it was useful to have underlings – on the off chance that one of them would end up dating a forensic sketch artist, flip through his boyfriend's sketch pad, and find an etching of a man they'd spent weeks searching for. It almost made up for all the times Mello had nearly blown a case up with his impetuousness – and 'blown up' was used in a very literal sense.

Jack Wilson – the man in the sketch. A slippery character who had been evading L for a few weeks – a praise-worthy accomplishment in and of itself – and one of the final pieces to the intricate smuggling system. He was a major player in the game of drugs and guns, one of the brains behind the operation and therefore important to take out.

And slicker than an eel.

He had a nasty habit of suddenly vanishing without a trace, right as L was about to close a trap around his throat, then reappearing on the other side of the globe along with more than a few pounds of narcotics. Two weeks ago, he had pulled that trick again, disappearing from under Near's nose, who had been following him at the time – but this time the slippery smuggler hadn't popped back up again.

Though now it seemed he was in Japan once again.

And, apparently, knocking off tenants in the Aioi apartment complex.

L had not yet uncovered exactly why Wilson had suddenly decided to terrorize the complex's inhabitants, but he suspected it had something to do with a rather sizable shipment of high-grade heroin that had gone missing recently. But whatever the reason, it was only a matter of time before L and company caught up with him, and murder was generally much easier to prove than smuggling. Blood was not as easy to erase as narcotics.

Wilson's days of wriggling out of L's grasp were almost over. At this point, L had decided to sit back and allow his successors to take the rest of the case, mainly for reasons of assessment. Now that they had ascertained Wilson's whereabouts, the case would be easily wrapped up, making it an ideal test for his underlings.

So, as the supervising detective, L really should have been focusing on the case and his successor's actions – and for the most part, he was doing just fine. The only problem was a stubborn pair of startling sensual brown eyes that kept sneaking up from the basement of his brain, distracting him from his more important work.

In L's opinion, eyes like that shouldn't be allowed out of the bedroom, as they were distracting enough to be considered a public hazard. They were the color of honey – a dark, raw honey not yet tainted by human hands – with a tapering angled shape that was perfect for casting sultry, sidelong glances beneath thick lashes. There was a thrilling mixture of warmth and aloofness, an icy passion. And terribly sharp – the hawk-eyes of a cunning observer, full of intelligence and will to act.

L felt a funny tingle in his spine whenever he thought of them.

Now, contrary to what some might think, L was not oblivious to sexual matters – nor was he actually asexual. He was a sexual being with sexual urges like the majority of humans; he merely often ignored them in favor of work, unlike most others of his age group.

That was not to say, however, that he always ignored them or that he was oblivious to what a funny tingle in his spine meant. He knew he was considerably attracted – physically – to the owner of the intense brown eyes, who was also in possession of a pair of mile-long legs and a remarkably fine ass.

The problem was that he couldn't quite focus on his work, and it was beginning to become noticeable.

"You're distracted," Near stated dully, not even looking up from the computer screen in front of him, one white strand of hair being gently twirled around his finger.

L turned his head to stare at his youngest successor, wiping all emotion from his face.

"What led you to that conclusion?"

"You have been blinking at a rate of twenty blinks per minute for the past eight minutes," Near replied evenly, his voice bordering on monotone. "Usually you blink eleven times a minute and only blink more when you're distracted about something."

"Dude, do you realize how creepy that sounds?" Matt, seated at the computer on other side of Near and across from L, pulled off his headphones and joined in.

"I believe it is called observant, Matt."

"It's called stalkerish."

"Matt, did you finish hacking into the video feed?" L decided to intervene, too impatient to wait for them to finish their battle of definitions.

Matt leaned comfortably back into his own chair, his hands snaking up behind his head, and grinned at L across the mass of computers. "Yep. Amateur stuff, man. Didn't even take any hacking – anyone with a computer and internet access could've done it. "

"Good," L nodded, satisfied. "Is Mello here yet?"

"Nah, he's always late though, you know that. So what are you so distracted about, as has been determined through observant and possibly stalkerish methods?"

This was why L didn't like underlings. They were efficient and capable, yes, but also frightfully nosy little buggers. Watari was never this meddlesome.

"I hardly see how that is your business, Matt," L answered, hardly noticing as he began chomping down on his thumb, digging the tips of his teeth into the ridged skin by sheer force of habit.

"It's not," Matt returned easily, a cigarette slipping familiarly between his teeth. "But I can't think when that's ever stopped us." The cigarette bobbed mockingly as he smirked over at L.

"Put that out or take it outside," L directed. Evasion seemed a good tactic for now. "You know Watari doesn't allow smoking inside the room."

"You're evading," Near decided to contribute once again to the conversation, rather unhelpfully in L's opinion.

"Aren't you two supposed to be focusing on the case? Or would you rather wait until Wilson kills another few innocent tenants." Where evasion failed, guilt often succeeded.

"We both know he isn't going to hit again until tomorrow night," Matt countered lazily, "and until then there's not much to do. So I think there's plenty of time to talk, especially since Mels isn't here yet. And the fact that you're so hesitant to talk makes me think you probably ran into a hot ass and can't get it out of your head. Am I right?" he asked, a knowing smirk playing around his lips – which still stubbornly were wrapped around a smoking cigarette. Even Near had looked away from his computer, his eyes shifting to peer at L's face.

What happened to the days L's successors used to respect and, dare he say, even revere him?

Now all they seemed to do was nose into his business and run the bills up with their unhealthy addictions. Not that L didn't have plenty of money – he could have started padding his furniture with the stuff if he wanted – but it was the principle of the matter.

"So," Matt prompted, "are we going to need to clear out of here tonight?"

"It is unlikely that will be necessary," L said candidly. "Now return to your work, or I'll dock your pay." Where evasion and guilt failed, direct threats were the last viable option.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. But if you need, we can crash at Mello's for the night, s'long as he's not got that guy he's seeing over."

"Work. Now."

Matt smirked and turned back to his computer.

Mello, who had been staying in Japan before the smuggling case came up – cultivating questionable contacts among the yakuza – already had an apartment and therefore had no need to suffer through staying in a five-star luxury hotel suite. He also stubbornly refused to take in any genius boarders (and thereby getting them out of L's hair), on the grounds that roommates tended to put a damper on sexual opportunities.

Which were rather important to Mello.

The blond was easily the most sexually active of the four of them, as he tended to be fucking someone whenever he wasn't working. Sometimes he had long strings of one night stands, sometimes he stuck with the convenience of one steady, though casual, relationship – like he was apparently in now.

L, Matt, and Near were only too aware of Mello's current relationship status; after all, he'd shown up enough times complaining about how L had called him right as he was about to get some of the finest ass in Japan – according to Mello's rather enthusiastic opinion, at least. L hadn't seen Mello's boyfriend and therefore couldn't judge, but at the moment he couldn't help but wonder if the mystery boyfriend could compare to the striking brunet L had run into a few days ago – the one currently distracting L from his work.

Somehow, he thought not.

After Mello, Matt was probably the next most sexually active. He was much more low-key about his alliances, but L knew he had a healthy share of them. Unlike Mello, who was more of a 'fuck them until he was bored, then leave' type, Matt had several acquaintances scattered across the world – mostly of the female persuasion, though there were a few men as well – that he met up with whenever he was nearby and in want of sex. Again, nothing serious, but much steadier than Mello's relationships that tended to end explosively and permanently.

Matt left with a kiss and a "See ya around." Mello left with a black eye and a middle finger waving him off.

As for L, he was much pickier than either of the M's and not as conventionally attractive – sometimes even called creepy, by the less aesthetically forgiving – but he also occasionally indulged in sexual desires, when his right hand just wasn't enough.

But like Matt and Mello, his relationships were never serious; his career choice was hardly the ideal for a serious romantic relationship. In fact, most of the time his sexual instincts were satisfied after a single night – the other person always thoroughly researched and ensured to have been recently tested for any sexual diseases. L was much too cautious (Mello would call it paranoid) for anything else. Sometimes he called the person again, but usually he lost interest after one night and had neither desire nor need to sleep with anyone for, typically, about another month.

And then there was Near. L wasn't quite sure if he was even sexual – after all, a small percentage of the population was considered asexual, so it was possible, if statistically unlikely. But then, Wammy children tended to defy expectations and statistics, even in matters of sexuality. L theorized it was partially due to the open-minded environment cultivated at the orphanage, which prompted the children to be more open to their own natures and discovering what they liked.

Mello, Matt, and L all considered themselves bisexual, though L was closer to the homosexual side and Matt was a bit closer to the heterosexual end, while Mello was happily smack dab in the middle. And Near…was Near. Whatever that was, he kept it strictly his own business.

He really could have been action-figure-sexual, for all L knew – and again, one would think, what with L being _L_, he would have been one of the more likely candidates to know. Greatest detectives in the world were supposed to be observant, after all.

But perhaps thinking of sexual matters at such a time wasn't the best of ideas, considering his preoccupation with a certain pair of attractive and unfortunately anonymous eyes and the observant nature of his underlings.

"L's thinking about that ass again," Matt announced to the general room. It was unfortunate that the announcement coincided precisely with Watari's entrance, so the elderly man was also included within the room's boundaries at the time.

Watari, however, had never yet been fazed by anything his charges said or did, and was unlikely to start now.

"Put that out, Matt," he said in gentle reprimand, echoing L's earlier order and placing a cup of tea and a bowl of sugar cubes in front of the detective.

Without protest, Matt snuffed the cigarette out on the hotel's ashtray, and L scowled at the discrepancy. His underlings were unerringly obedient to him in the field (usually), but on casual matters, they only obeyed Watari consistently. L would have to do something about that.

"Has Mello arrived yet?" L asked quietly, erasing his scowl as he began methodically dropping sugar cubes into his waiting tea, one by one.

"I don't believe so, sir. Would you like me to call his cellular?"

"That won't be necessary, Watari. I was merely curious."

"And trying to distract yourself," Matt muttered with a suspicious quirk of his lips. The only sound from Near was a seemingly innocent click of a mouse that nevertheless managed to sound more mocking than any appliance had the right to be.

L decided he spent too much time with his subordinates; they were beginning to be become annoyingly capable in reading him.

It was true he was a bit distracted by thoughts of the mysterious brunet – after all, it wasn't every day one stumbled across such a markedly attractive person. L could already feel his libido waking up in definite interest. The problem lay in the fact that L had no idea who the gorgeous stranger was or what his orientation might have been.

Typically, when L decided to sleep with someone, he researched them extensively before he ever approached them. He couldn't exactly afford to take chances. So when he had bumped into the brunet, instead of starting up a conversation or asking his name, as a more conventional person who was interested in the man might have, L had simply muttered an apology and quickly left, not wanting to stand out in the memory of someone who could be potentially dangerous. It was safer, but also dramatically reduced his chances of getting sex.

Particularly with that distracting man whom he'd bumped into.

It had only been chance that L had been at the lecture hall in the first place. Watari had thrown him out of the hotel room that afternoon, as he tended to do about once every two months, insisting L had been inside much longer than healthy and wasn't allowed back until eight o'clock that evening.

L, grumpily, had spent most of the day in a nearby coffee shop, steadily depleting them of all their baked goods, until he eventually grew bored of watching the other customers and decided to seek some sort of intellectual stimulation. He overheard a few students mentioning a visiting professor who specialized in criminal psychology and who had written a paper L vaguely remembered reading (and probably critiquing rather harshly), and he'd figured that was as good a way as any to pass the time – if only for the sake of mentally tearing the professor's statements to shreds.

However, when he'd arrived, he'd found the lecture hall too crowded for his tastes and quickly left, intending to eat more cake until his forced exile was completed.

And so he'd bumped into a god.

That was perhaps an exaggeration. Alright, definitely an exaggeration. But L was bored and mildly horny and therefore not accountable for any embellished comparisons his brain might make.

He hoped Mello would arrive soon, so L could question him about the assignment for the case he'd given him and distract himself somewhat. Except Mello would probably show up looking satisfied and unapologetically recently fucked, which really wouldn't help matters.

As though summoned by the sheer power of L's thoughts, the inner door to the suite slammed shut, and a pair of heavily-booted feet could be heard stomping into the room. L knew it was Mello without looking up, so he didn't remove his eyes from the steady glow of the computer screen in front of him.

At least until he heard Matt say, "Damn! What happened to you, Mel?"

Mello, now lounging comfortably along the hotel's coffee-cream sofa, had a rather magnificent bruise circling his left eye with an impressive range of colors, from a dark plum purple directly beneath it to a grotesque yellowish-grey lining the top. L felt himself rather prophetic, considering his earlier thoughts on the nature of Mello's relationships and, specifically, how they were terminated.

"Boyfriend punched me," Mello answered simply, toeing one boot off after the other, and they fell noisily to the floor in two dull thuds. "Twice."

"Did you deserve it?" Matt pressed, a grin sneaking up to his lips. Near was unwaveringly looking at his computer, but L could tell he was interested in the story as well – his head was tilted slightly towards Mello, a sure sign he was listening.

"Yeah, probably. He walked in on me with my dick in some chick's mouth. I was pretty smashed at the time. And she had chocolate," he added, as though it was a crucial point – and for Mello, it probably was.

And L was not even a little surprised. Mello would probably do just about anything if he was drunk enough and there was chocolate.

Matt was laughing now, loudly and unapologetically, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I'm impressed he actually marked you – not anyone can do that, and I should know, man."

"No shit," Mello agreed emphatically, looking oddly smug for one in his situation. "He's got a nasty right hook. You wouldn't think looking at him, but he's pretty damn fast. Just slips in and pops ya one before you even know what he's about."

"He was the one who drew the sketch of Wilson?" L interrupted in his typical abrupt manner. While he felt some measure of sympathy for Mello, he also felt a bit of vicious satisfaction that he wasn't he only one currently with sex difficulties.

"Yeah, Light's the artist," Mello answered, stretching his arms languidly above his head. "A bit bitchy sometimes but one of the sexiest bastards I've ever met. He has this way of glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes that makes you want to just throw him down and fuck him. He's got really, really nice legs too. Long and toned. Man, it sucks it's over. I probably could have fucked around with him for at least another month."

"Broke up?" Matt asked, a little sympathy mixed in with his laughter. But L wasn't entirely listening anymore, struck by the remarkable similarity between Mello's description and his own earlier distracted imaginings. Could it be…?

No, it was more than likely a coincidence, facilitated by the fact that he had just been thinking of the unknown brunet and L's own hopes the man was homosexual. After all, there had to be many young men in the area with sultry eyes and long legs. Those were hardly specific descriptions.

"You better fucking believe he broke up with me," Mello was laughing, with the barest touch of regret to his throaty voice. "Don't blame him , of course. He told me at the beginning if I ever cheated it'd be over – a pride thing, I think. Has a strict exclusive dating policy, even though he never gets emotionally serious with anyone. And he really is an arrogant son of a bitch. He's got an ego to rival yours, L."

But L wasn't listening, still occupied with his previous line of thought.

"Mello," he interrupted, "what did you say his name was?" There was no harm in checking, even if there was less than three percent of a chance it was the same person.

Mello crossed one socked foot over the other, propped up on the sofa's armrest. "Light Yagami," he answered simply, without fuss. "You might recognize the family name – his old man's pretty high up in the NPA. Why?"

But L didn't bother to answer, his only reply the rapid clicking of his keyboard as he typed the letters in. Matt, realizing what L was up to, hoofed it around to L's computer to peer over his shoulder, and even Near, making it seem like a pure coincidence, wandered over to watch impassively as a surprising number of photographs popped up.

Yagami Light.

Junior high school tennis champion.

Son of the chief of the NPA, helped his father solve several cases while still in high school.

Perfect entrance score to To-Oh University, class representative.

Featured in several of the campus newspaper articles, mostly for his artwork.

And, most importantly, the owner of a pair of particularly distracting brown eyes L had run into a few days ago.

And he was gay, evidently.

L felt a very pleasant twist in his gut, a twist of excitement and potential, and wondered if this was a reward for all the times he'd saved the world. A gorgeous, homosexual man, recently single and clearly not opposed to casual sex, had practically been dropped in L's lap, and he'd barely even needed to lift a finger. The only thing that could make this better was cake.

And cake could easily be arranged.

To L's left, his white-haired successor leaned a little closer to the screen, then pulled away with a shrug.

"He looks like Matt."

Had L not been _L_, he wouldn't have noticed the minute tension in the other, lankier body hovering over his shoulder, a slight stiffening after Near's bland remark. But he was and he did, and he also noticed the hidden flash of surprise in Mello's eyes as they flickered over to the team's hacker.

Then Mello smiled and laughed and said, "Hey, the albino's right! They do look kinda similar," and the strange, awkward tension dispersed as Matt chuckled back and lit up a fresh cigarette.

"It's just the hair cut," Matt said plainly with a grin in his voice, the words slipping easily out around his smoke, which L didn't bother telling him to put out because he was too busy studying the computer screen in front of him. "And the fact that we're both damn sexy."

Near, finished with his assessment, padded quietly back to his own computer and returned to his bubble of indifference, hardly noticed by the other three.

And L scrutinized the photos of the not-so-anonymous-anymore brunet with highly concentrated interest. Near was right; on the surface, there were several notable similarities, but-

"Their energies are completely different," he announced, satisfied with the conclusion. "Matt has a very relaxed and somewhat unflappable manner, while Light-kun's aura is significantly more intense."

"Did you just call him Light-kun?" Matt's surprised and slightly suspicious voice asked.

At the same time, Mello laughed and said, "Intense is bloody right. Every single thing he does is intense. Makes for fucking fantastic sex, though."

"L," Matt cut in again, a grin gradually beginning to color his voice once more, "did you call him Light-kun?"

"This is Japan, is in not?" L asked innocently, not looking up from his screen. "And he is Japanese."

"He probably wants to fuck him," Mello said bluntly, looking a little too contented and unconcerned for someone whose ex was being discussed in such a light. "I think this is the first time we've had the same tastes in men."

"I don't know, I think L already has his eye on someone," Matt commented, blowing a huff of smoke towards the ceiling, as L debated the effectiveness of telling him to put it out, or if he should just wait for Watari to return from the kitchen, where he'd retreated shortly before Mello had arrived. "He's been distracted all morning," Matt continued. "Actually, he's been a little distracted for the past few days. You notice that?"

"I thought he was just thinking of cake, but now that you mention it, it has been pretty bad, huh?" Mello agreed after a short moment of quick pondering. "L, you need to fuck someone and get it out of your system. You know how you get when you haven't had sex recently enough. Don't make all of us suffer," he warned, with more than a suggestion of a threat drowning out any concern his tone might have held.

"I appreciate your dubious concern for my well-being, Mello, but I assure you the matter will not affect you or my professional performance," L stated dryly. Nosy underlings. L had every intention of sleeping with Light, so long as the other was equally agreeable to the idea, but that didn't mean it was any business of his successors.

Especially when one of the successors was the recent ex of the man L intended to sleep with. There was a lot of potential for mess in that situation. But then again, it was Mello he was talking about here, who was more likely to ask to join in than get upset.

"That's where you're wrong," Matt countered, smooth and unconcerned, and L nearly growled because one did not so casually tell the greatest detective in the world he was _wrong_, no matter how truthful the statement might have been. "You get distracted and don't focus on work, so it does affect your professional performance. We've worked with you for three years, L. We _know_ how you get."

"Yeah," Mello chimed in, eager and unhelpful. "So hurry up and fuck whoever it is on your mind, or we'll just get a whore for you. You're going to be unbearable until you get some ass."

"If I may interrupt," Watari interjected from the kitchen's doorway, clearing his throat loudly.

It was wonder, considering his unfortunate and timely entrances, that Watari did not yet think L a sex-obsessed fiend. Or perhaps he did – it was sometimes hard to tell with Watari, even for the greatest detective in the world.

"But I believe," Watari continued with an air of patience and admonition, "that you all are supposed to be working to catch a murderer, if I am not mistaken. Please return to your task. And Matt, kindly extinguish that cigarette."

He fixed them all with a stern, authoritative stare that snapped them back into their Wammy days, and they all hastily turned to their own computers, muttering a chorus of, "Yes, Watari," as they forgot they were adults and acted like a bunch of reprimanded schoolboys.

The interruption was a relief, though – for L at least – as he presently had a great deal to think about and needed no meddling successors nosing into his sex life.

L allowed himself a small grin of victory.

_Yagami Light._

He had a name now – a name to go with a face, a name to go with a distraction, a name to go with a fantasy.

A name to go with a plan.

* * *

><p>"<em>Light! Wait! Oh fuck – get off, will ya? – hey, wait up, Light! Fuck it, where are my pants…Light!"<em>

_A rustling of clothes and a pounding of bare footsteps running after a slower, smoother pair._

"_Hold up…! Ah, Jesus, Light, I'm really fucking sor- Aah! __**Fuck**__, that hurt! Who the hell taught you to punch like that? Gah, my ears are ringing."_

"_Right, Mello – let's not make this into a bigger deal than it is."_

"_That's really fucking easy to say after popping me one in the eye! Fuck, you know this is gonna bruise, right?"_

"_With any luck, yes. Are you saying you didn't deserve it?"_

"_No, no, I did, just – damn, that's one hell of an arm. Aren't you supposed to be an artist? But listen, Light, I'm really fucking sorry about this. I drank a little too much and she was really hot and kept giving me chocolate, and-"_

"_Mello. I honestly don't need to hear your explanations. What's the point? We both know I'm not going to get heartbroken over this – we've always been on the same page in this relationship. It was just fucking. Yeah, I'm a bit pissed at the thought of anyone cheating on me, but let's not blow this into some needlessly huge, dramatic affair. It was fun, you were great, but it probably wasn't going to last much longer anyway. And, to be frank, I suspected since the beginning it'd end this way. It's just they way you are – an impetuous ass who thinks with your dick more than you should."_

"_I won't argue with that. So...I guess it's over then?"_

"_Yes, Mello. It's definitely over. You know how I feel about cheating."_

"_Uh, fuck yeah. You made that really clear."_

"_Yeah…you might want to go put some ice on that."_

"_No shit. Hey, how about one last fuck? Round of break up sex."_

"_You're shameless, Mello. And drunk. Go home."_

"_I guess I deserve that. But still, you're real cold, babe. Fucking gorgeous, but cold as fuck. But really, really fucking sexy."_

"_How much did you drink? Your vocabulary always goes down the drain when you're smashed. And… Are you really trying to grope my ass right now?"_

"_Uh…it looks like I am."_

"_Hands. Off, now."_

"_See? Frigid, babe. Glacial."_

"_Mello…"_

"_Huh – __**fuck!**__ Holy shit, Light! Give a guy some warning! Aah…fuck, that hurts. That was the same eye, you know? How'd you get so bloody fast, anyway? I mean, I know I'm a little plastered, but-"_

"_Mello. Go home. Ice your eye. It was fun. Maybe I'll see you around."_

"_Alright, I'm going. See ya later, babe."_

_And two men walked away, neither looking back._

* * *

><p><em>Thursday<em>

The Aioi murder case had been solved. Quickly and efficiently, as to be expected from L.

Light had heard the details yesterday when he'd been called down to the station for a sketch, the witness given by the victim of a rather nasty mugging.

Apparently, the murderer's name was Jack Wilson. American father, Japanese mother – which explained the western name. And, as it turned out, he was rather heavily involved in a large smuggling ring L had supposedly been taking out.

Wilson had disappeared from under L's surveillance, however, something Light was grudgingly impressed by, especially considering the smuggler had done it several times. The final time that he slipped away, it seemed a large shipment of narcotics had also gone astray, hidden in the back of a used television that was mistakenly sold to one of the tenants of the Aioi apartments – exactly which one apparently wasn't known.

Cue outbreak of small murders disguised as random robberies.

Wilson, pissed off and in want of his shipment, had been sent to fish out the drugs and silence anyone who may have found out too much. He had methodically begun searching each apartment, and the murder victims were those unfortunate few who accidentally walked in him.

Annoyingly simple, once all the details were in place, and hardly a case of the caliber the great detective supposedly accepted (or hijacked, in this instance). The only reason he'd evidently even taken the case was the odd coincidence that the murderer also happened to be the man the detective was already searching for.

Which was a considerable relief for Light.

He had known it unlikely that L was interested in the case because of his sketch, but it was much less stressful now that he knew for sure.

After all, L was the last person Light wanted interested in – and in particular, suspicious of – his art.

Light dropped onto his couch, stretching along its full length and arching his back up in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension in his muscles. His fingers sneaked up to rub at his temples in gentle, soothing circles that nevertheless did little for his headache.

This often happened shortly after he broke up with a boyfriend. Even casual relationships required an adjustment once they were gone, creating just a little unwanted stress in Light's life. And when he was stressed, he drew.

Even now, he could feel his fingers twitching to pick up a pencil and notebook, to feel the power of pinning down a personality on paper.

Maybe if tried drawing that impossible face once again, that paradoxical black-eyed face Light had been attempting – and failing – to draw for a week now. To be honest, that was probably what was causing him the most stress, not his recent, minor lifestyle change.

The worst part was that every time he failed to capture the face satisfactorily, his usual source of stress release – art – became a massive source of frustration instead.

And that just pissed him off even more.

Light was shaken from his brooding irritation as, with startling abruptness, a soft but unhesitant knock on his door suddenly echoed through the room.

He rolled smoothly to his feet and padded over to the door, idly rubbing at the back of neck. He had no idea who could be at his door. Despite his surface popularity among his peers at school, none of his friends would drop by unannounced, particularly in the middle of the week, as Light only ever got together with them on the weekends, and not very often at that. He wasn't even sure any of them knew where he lived.

Mello knew where he lived, but Light hadn't seen him since Monday night when they'd ended the relationship, and he found it unlikely it would be him. And in any case, Mello was accustomed to letting himself into his boyfriend's apartment without so much as a warning knock; Light doubted that would change even if they were no longer dating.

It was probably some sort of annoying door-to-door salesman selling something Light apparently couldn't survive without but had somehow been managing all these years.

With that unpleasant thought in mind, Light opened the door.

"Light!"

It was Sayu.

She flung herself at him, energetically latching on around his neck and doing her best to squeeze all the life out of him. He disentangled himself before she succeeded, and the door slowly closed behind her.

"Sayu, what are doing here? Do Mom and Dad know you're here?"

"Nah," she grinned. "I told them I was visiting a friend's house, not that it really matters. Am I not allowed to visit my brother? You told me I could!"

"Well, yeah, but I expected you to call first."

"Oh…"

As he noticed her falling face, he rolled his eyes and teasingly rubbed the top of her head, mussing up her formerly neat hair, and she immediately bristled beneath his hand.

"Idiot. It's fine, you just surprised me. So what did you want?"

"To meet Mello of course!" she laughed, her smile once more as bright as ever as she beamed up at him. "I've never met any of your boyfriends, except for that stupid boy you dated in high school who snorted whenever he laughed. Ugh, he was so disgusting. I have no idea why you dated him," she jabbered, not giving Light time to jump in. "So I want to meet Mello, because he sounds really cool! Is he home? Is he here? Is now a good time to meet him?"

"Sayu," Light finally interrupted the string of chatter and questions, snapping his fingers in front of her face, making her blink in surprise. "We broke up."

Sayu blinked in surprise again, this time from his words, before a horrified expression crept onto her face.

"Oh…I'm so sorry! And here I was just babbling on… Are you doing alright?" she finished worriedly, looking up at him with painfully blatant concern.

Light couldn't help but laugh at the guilt evident in every line of her body; her level of self-reproach would have been more fitting had she dug a knife into his thigh then rubbed salt in it, rather than merely asked after an ex boyfriend.

"Don't be stupid," he chuckled. "Didn't you listen to me Sunday? Mello and I weren't serious. It's hardly a big deal – of course I'm fine."

Sayu visibly relaxed, adapting quickly to his obviously casual attitude over the affair. "Oh yeah. I forgot you're Mr. Too-Independent-For-Love. Well, that's too bad. I really wanted to meet him. Couldn't you have waited a few days to break up?"

She giggled at his exasperated look and slipped farther inside the room, unashamedly peeking around, her schoolbag tucked close in to her body.

"I haven't been here since you moved out. It looks nice – you've done a really good job with it," she said, smiling earnestly at him, only innocence in her bright eyes and cheerful grin.

Light, not fooled in the least by her casual act, merely crossed his arms and lifted a single eyebrow at her. "Alright, what else did you want?"

Sayu grinned mischievously. "Well, since I took the time to come all the way here to see you and meet Mello, only to find you've selfishly broken up already, don't you think you owe me something?"

"No," Light said bluntly. "But what are you after?"

Her smile turned sheepish as she indicated the bookbag in her arms. "My maths teacher hates me. He doesn't explain things at all! And it's just one assignment, so could you please help me understand!" she began slowly and finished in an eager rush, as though he'd be more likely to agree if he couldn't understand the jumble of words. "Please! What's the point of having a genius brother if he doesn't help you with your homework?" And she obviously understood the value of flattery and guilt tactics, which unfortunately didn't work on Light.

She pulled her face into a pleading pout and stared deep into Light's unswayed eyes, no doubt pulling up every innocent-sister wile in her arsenal.

Light stared back, unaffected and unmoved by her wide, bordering on teary eyes; a pregnant silence stretched between them, as she silently begged and he silently deliberated.

"Alright," he finally consented. He actually had time to spare today, and it was always a good idea to have someone owe him a favor, even if it was just Sayu. "But," he added, as she tried to maul him in enthusiastic gratitude, "we're going to that coffee shop down the street on the corner, and you're paying."

"Okay!" Sayu agreed happily and immediately. "Thanks, Light – you're the best!"

Light just threw her an unimpressed look and strode leisurely over to his kitchen to pluck his keys from the counter, along with his wallet – Sayu may have agreed to pay, but he'd long ago learned it was much safer to carry it anyway.

"Let's go," he said unceremoniously, "so we can get you home before dinner."

"Yep!" Sayu chirped agreeably, and together they slipped out of his apartment, Light pausing to lock the door and Sayu bouncing cheerfully beside him.

About halfway down the stairs, Sayu tilted her eyes up to him and asked curiously, "Hey, Light? How do you afford your apartment? Does your job really pay enough?"

"It almost does. The rest comes from money I'd saved up for college, but didn't need all of when I got a scholarship. It's a little tight, but I cope fine. It just takes good money management." He kept his voice light and easy, hiding the lie beneath layers of half-truths. Some of the money did come from his job, after all; it just wasn't all from his sketch artist job, as he let her assume.

"Stupid genius," Sayu grouched good-naturedly, if rather oxymoronically.

"Very funny – oh shit, my phone," he cursed, stopping suddenly as he realized he had left his cell phone waiting on the coffee table. "Go ahead on down; I'll meet you at the bottom." He turned and started up the stairs two at a time, his long legs easily reaching the distance without problem.

Sayu giggled and yelled after him, "Right. And I'll be sure not to let it slip to Mom and Dad that you swore in front of me."

Light, not worried, paused to smile pleasantly down at her. "Of course you won't. And I won't let it slip that you really went to that concert last month they said you couldn't go to, instead of sleeping over at a friend's like you told them you were."

"Light!" Sayu sounded scandalized, but there was hint of a smile playing around her lips. "How did you know?"

"As if I'm going to tell you," he laughed, resuming his ascent once more. "I'll be back in a second; just wait at the bottom like a good girl."

Her indignant reply was lost to him as he reached the landing of his floor and turned down towards his door. It barely took any time at all for him to reenter his apartment, snag the phone from the table and lock the door behind him once more, and he soon was heading back down the stairs in an unhurried lope.

As he neared the very bottom of the stairs, he heard Sayu's cheerful tones giggling at someone, though he couldn't determine her conversation partner.

Then he heard a deep, throaty chuckle, and realized exactly whom she was talking to.

A smirk pricked at his lips; this could be interesting.

He slowed to a casual stroll, stepping quietly down the final few steps, and slipped closer to the two rather friendly chatters, though both were still oblivious to his presence.

"Do you live around here?" one was asking with a confident grin. "I don't think I've seen you before, and I'd remember a cute girl like you."

Light frowned. That was a little _too_ friendly.

"Mello, it would be very a bad idea to try to pick up my little sister."

Two heads whirled towards him and two voices exclaimed at the same time:

"_Mello?_"

"_Your sister?_"

Because he was watching – and quite observant – Light noticed the flicker of Mello's eyes across Sayu's face as he gauged her reaction to his identity, the realization that she hadn't been told of his cheating, and the flash of surprise as his eyes darted very briefly over to Light. It all happened quickly enough that if Light had blinked, he would've missed it. But Light'd had two months to learn Mello's subtle tells, and he'd come to recognize how Mello's face was accustomed to reacting.

Light also was pleased to notice Mello's left eye still bore the mark of his punches, though the bruise had begun to fade somewhat and was mostly taken over by a sickly yellow-grey.

It was then that Light noticed Sayu staring at him with undisguised shock, her mouth even hanging open slightly. Well, nothing subtle there.

"What?" he asked, a little snappily.

"You dated _this person_ for two months?" she questioned incredulously, rolling her eyes obviously over to Mello to take in all his tight-leather-wearing glory. Mello cocked an eyebrow back at her, his smirk confident but his eyes betraying the slightest confusion. "But-"

"But what?"

"But he's so cool!"

There was silence for the stretch of a stunned moment, then Mello burst into noisy laughter, practically doubling over, and Light fixed his sister with an unamused stare.

"And what exactly," Light said, mixing just the right amount of subtle superiority and indifference to his tone, "are you saying? Think carefully, for the sake of your homework."

"Oh!" Sayu backpedaled frantically, clearly realizing how her comment would've sounded. "I didn't mean it that way! You're really cool too! But you're cool in a classy, sophisticated way, and Mello-san seems more…" she trailed off and stared helplessly at the smug _something_ that was Mello, unable to put his coolness into words.

"Fucking awesome?" Mello supplied obligingly, grinning.

"Whorish?" Light put in, ignoring Mello's unashamed snort of laughter. "It's the leather; whenever he wears it he looks like a prostitute working the streets."

"Don't be jealous, babe."

"Yes, because it has always been my ambition to be mistaken for a whore."

"Um," Sayu actually blushed a little as she interjected, "you two just don't look like the type of people who'd date each other. I guess I'm surprised you two were together for so long."

Mello's mouth suddenly stretched into a wide grin, a sure sign that Light wouldn't approve of whatever he was planning on saying.

"That's 'cause the sex is fucking amazing."

Yep. Light definitely wouldn't have approved. Besides-

"_Was_," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "_Was_ fucking amazing." If they were going to discuss their sex life they might as well use the correct verb tense.

"See, you think so too."

Sayu had already burned an even darker red, but Light could see the interest in her expression. Then her eyes suddenly lit up with a thought, and she turned to Mello in excitement and, despite her obvious embarrassment, eagerly said, "Mello-san! I have to ask you, because I know Light won't ever tell me – does my brother top or bottom?"

Oh god, Light should have realized this would be a horrifically bad idea. He had guessed they'd get along well together – and thus far, it seemed he'd been right – but he'd forgotten what that would mean for him personally, caught between the two.

Especially considering Sayu's unnatural enthusiasm for his love life and the fact that Mello was the most shameless of any of Light's boyfriends. This was a terrible idea.

"Sayu," he snapped sharply, throwing his iciest warning glare at Mello, who grinned winningly back through his blond fringe.

"What?" Sayu asked innocently, though her widened eyes didn't fool him, and eventually the ingenuousness in her features dripped away and she smiled sheepishly. "Just curious…"

"I don't see why you would even be curious about that," Light told her, but he kept his eyes narrowed distrustfully on Mello. The blond looked more than usually suspicious, with his smug smirk and mischievous eyes flitting between the two siblings. "And I find it just a little creepy, honestly."

"C'mon, Light!" Sayu whined. "It's not creepy. You're just the only gay boy I know well, so where else am I supposed to get information?"

"The fact that you even want information is worrying. And don't believe anything Mello tells you," he added, noticing his ex-boyfriend's devious expression. "If you must know, I switch, depending on my mood and the other person." This wasn't a conversation he ever wanted to have with anyone in his family, but he figured it was better to tell her than wait for Mello to feed her skewed information.

"Yeah," Mello agreed, smirk still firmly in place, "but he takes it like a-"

"Mello, if you finish that sentence, I promise you I will slice off your tongue, and you'll never be able to taste chocolate again."

Mello fortunately stopped, giving Light a sly and overly pleased smile, and Light thought it was definitely time to go or he might end up giving Mello a matching bruise for his other eye. Sayu, however, jumped in before he could speak.

"You guys are funny," she giggled, smiling between the two of them. "Why did you break up?"

Mello's and Light's eyes met, Light's smirking and calculating, Mello's confident and unconcerned.

"Difference of opinion," Mello said with an easy smile, turning back to Sayu, but Light just held up his pinky finger and glanced significantly at Mello's crotch, the action seen only by Sayu.

His sister's eyes widened in shock before darting involuntarily to that area as well, and she burst into laughter as she got the implication.

Mello, understandably surprised, squinted suspiciously at Light, who smirked back and decided now was a good time to make their exit.

"We better go, Sayu, or you'll be getting home too late. Nice to see you, Mello," he said pleasantly.

"Yeah, you too, babe," Mello returned, his eyes still narrowed at Light. "See you around."

"It was nice to meet you!" Sayu smiled earnestly, pulling a grin from Mello as well. "Thanks for taking care of my brother," she added as she bowed politely.

"Oh I'll take care of him anytime," Mello replied, his salacious smirk leaving no doubt to his meaning. "Take care, Sayu-chan." He flicked two casual fingers in a wave at Light. "Anytime you wanna play around, babe," he said in way of farewell, and Light rolled his eyes as the blond sauntered up the stairs with a final parting grin at Sayu.

When he was gone, Sayu turned a brilliant smile on Light.

"He's awesome! I'm so glad I got to meet him. But you're right – it wouldn't be a good idea to introduce him to Mom and Dad."

"You think?" Light said sarcastically. "It'd probably give them a heart attack. Alright, let's go. I want at least three cups of coffee, and I'd like them now."

"Yeah, yeah, but don't forget you're helping me with my homework too."

"You know, your earlier reasoning was that I owed you because you came here and didn't get to meet Mello. You've just met him, so I'd say that agreement is now void."

"Light!"

"I'm just kidding, stop squawking. Come on."

"Stupid brother."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Oh look, it's L. He's finally wandered into the story (last chapter hardly counts).<br>_

_I apologize for Mello's unnecessarily explicit language. (But not really.) Yes, it's excessive. That's just the way I see Mello._

_You may have noticed that I'm rather fond of Light's legs. I'm not sure why this is. I perve on them whenever I read the manga._

_Reviewers – thank you! You make me very happy.  
><em>

_Thanks for reading._


	4. Coffee Shops and Distractions

**Chapter Four**

_Coffee Shops and Distractions_

* * *

><p>"You know, it makes so much more sense now. Why didn't Katami-sensei explain it that way in the first place?"<p>

"Because your teacher is an idiot."

It had taken one hour, three cups of coffee (mostly Light's), and a few sundry pastries (all Sayu's), but in the end they managed to complete Sayu's homework assignment. Had Light been doing it himself, it would have been done before his first cup of coffee could have cooled to an acceptable drinking temperature.

Unfortunately, he hadn't been doing it by himself.

The hardest part by far had been making Sayu focus on the paper in front of her, instead of letting her attention flit all over the place like it wanted – from the people wandering in and out of the shop to the subdued green paint of the walls to the persistent strand of hair that kept falling into her eyes. In retrospect, he realized a public coffee shop was not the best place to make her do schoolwork, but he felt he had managed adequately nonetheless.

It had required a few hard flicks to her forehead, but in the end he'd eventually been able to make her focus on and understand the simple concept of algebraic permutations.

"You think everyone is an idiot, Light," Sayu said cheerfully across the table. "But despite that, you're pretty patient when you're explaining stuff. You'd be a good teacher."

"Mm," Light hummed, not really paying attention as he fished a few bills out of his wallet and casually handed them over to the flushing, hovering waitress. Sayu actually had kept her word and paid for Light's coffee, but then realized she didn't have enough for the pastries she'd eaten and sheepishly turned to Light. Light had been spectacularly unsurprised.

"Thanks for covering the rest of the bill, by the way…"

Light glanced at her at that – a dry, sardonic glance that, with a single raised eyebrow, conveyed all his unamused feelings on the matter.

Sayu grinned back with a cheekiness Light thought unwarranted for someone in her position.

"I know, I know – I'll pay you back," she assured him, before stuffing the rest of an éclair in her mouth and licking daintily at her fingers. A drip of icing dropped from her finger to the waiting plate below, and she scooped it back up and sucked it up.

"That's disgusting," Light said indifferently, too used to Sayu's eating habits to really care. He stood, slipping smoothly out of the booth and pulling his jacket on, and eyed the now empty plates stacked in front of her. "And I don't know how you can eat that many pastries in one sitting without throwing up. Or getting fat, for that matter," he added as an afterthought.

"C'mon, I hardly ever eat sweets. And it wasn't that much," Sayu insisted, bouncing up from her seat as well and beginning to haphazardly scoop all her books back into her schoolbag. "Besides, there's a guy sitting over in the corner that ate like four times as much me – I watched him, and he was eating nonstop the whole time we were here. That's pretty impressive, especially considering how thin he looks. Maybe he's just coming off a diet and celebrating?" she wondered aloud, swinging her bag onto her shoulder and straightening her skirt.

"And maybe if you'd been paying attention to your homework instead of some stranger killing himself with a sugar overdose we could have been done sooner," Light said without any bite. He really couldn't care less about strangers in corners, no matter how much sugar they ate.

Sayu threw him a cheerfully sheepish grin over her shoulder and merely started towards the door; he trailed after leisurely, weaving between tidily arranged chairs and tables full with chattering patrons.

Sayu had begun chattering as well, about what Light was only vaguely aware, as he hardly ever bothered following her babble unless she asked him a direct question – which she didn't do until they reached the coffee shop's doors and were stepping outside into the fading light of the sun.

"By the way," Sayu said, pausing outside and fixing her large, curious eyes on him, "I couldn't help noticing the bruise on Mello's eye. Do you know what happened?" Though she kept her voice innocent, Light heard the suggestion of a smile in her voice and the saw the interested glimmer in her eye.

He was not surprised. Sayu's inquisitiveness was rivaled only by her cheerfulness.

"Quit nosing," he said, checking his watch, which told him it was time to get his meddlesome sister home and out of his hair. "It's not your business, though I bet you've already formed your own assumptions about how it happened." As always. Sometimes Light felt like his life was some sort of television drama that teenage girls and middle-aged women watched because their own lives weren't interesting enough.

"Well," Sayu smiled back, unabashed, "I happen to know you have a decent punch and a tendency to swing it when you get mad, and considering you recently broke up with the owner of an obvious black eye…"

Yeah, that wasn't exactly subtle – even an unobservant idiot could put the pieces together, which Sayu wasn't. But Light still had no intention of discussing his private life to that extent with her, seeing no reason to give her the juicy break-up details she clearly was fishing for.

So he smiled pleasantly and said, "Interesting, isn't it?" and enjoyed the frustrated pout that pulled down her mouth as she realized he wasn't dishing.

"Alright," she sighed in noisy resignation. "I didn't really expect you tell me. You're so stingy."

"Mm," Light hummed, not bothering to disagree, "speaking of stingy, make sure you pay me back for all that junk you ate. Don't think I'll just let you conveniently forget – I want payment by the next time I visit home, or I'm charging interest." Light was only partially joking about this; Sayu had an annoying tendency of forgetting important things, a tendency which she managed to charm others into overlooking with her sweet, genuine smile and gushing apologies.

Light was the exception. He'd watched Sayu grow up, and he was wise to her devious wiles. In fact, he'd taught her most of them.

Sayu grinned earnestly up at him and quickly tucked a bit of hair behind her ear.

"I know, I'll pay you back," she promised. "Thanks again, Light – you're the best! I'll see you later!" And, with a flurry of carefree exuberance, she hugged him and took off trotting down the street, giving him a final cheery wave over her shoulder.

Light just rolled his eyes at her abrupt departure. Despite her bright assurances, he knew if he didn't remind her she owed him it wouldn't occur to her again.

With another glance at his watch, he headed down the street, the opposite direction as his sister.

As he walked, an obstinate, black-eyed face slipped into his mind's eye, daring him to draw it, but he determinedly pushed it back down. Light wasn't used to being beaten, and he certainly wasn't ready to concede defeat to that impossible face that was slowly driving him to infuriating distraction, but he was at a bit of an impasse at the moment.

After days of unsuccessful drawing, he had finally decided he wasn't going to be able to etch it out to his satisfaction solely from memory; he'd need either a picture or the genuine article in front of him.

He had even hacked into To-Oh's enrollment files, searching for a picture of the man he'd seen at the lecture, but he had consistently come up empty. The face belonged to neither a student nor to a faculty member.

But Light was determined. He was going to find that face and put the damn thing down on paper.

Anything else was unacceptable.

At that moment, just as he was turning up the stairs to his apartment, his phone rang.

* * *

><p>L had not visited the coffee shop with the intent to see Light. No, honestly, he hadn't.<p>

It just so happened that they served some particularly tasty cakes there, for which he had suddenly acquired an intense craving that couldn't be satisfied elsewhere. The convenient proximity of the shop to Light's apartment was merely a coincidence.

Really.

Accordingly, he had been appropriately surprised to see the current object of his obsessive fancy stroll inside in all his long-legged, sultry-eyed glory and take a table – unfortunately with his back to L, but at least within L's sight.

And L might have been jealous of the cute high school girl sitting across from Light had he not already been certain Light was gay, and had he not recognized the cheerful teenager as Light's sister.

It was research, not stalking.

Speaking of research, L had now concluded satisfactorily that Light was neither an international criminal determined to take out L nor in possession of any pesky sexual diseases – both of which would have disqualified him as a potential sex partner. One had to have standards, after all, no matter how beautiful and distracting the other person may have been.

Luckily, Light's record was as spotless as his apartment allegedly was, if Mello's reports of Light's place of residence were anything to go by. Both were almost _uncomfortably_ clean – but then, L supposed that was to be expected of the NPA chief's son. Crime was no doubt frowned upon in Light's family.

And L had to admit, Light was quite an impressive son: excellent grades throughout high school, a perfect entrance exam to a prestigious university, good-looking (a considerable understatement), well-liked, and, by all accounts, able to charm a fish onto dry land. He seemed almost too good to be true – the sort girls hoped to take home to meet their mothers.

In fact, it was possible Light was even a certifiable genius, though L had no way of knowing without administering any intelligence tests or interacting with him face-to-face (or rather, face-to-monitor). Even grades as immaculate as his didn't necessarily indicate genius-level intelligence.

But in all honestly, L didn't really care if the boy was a genius. He merely, to borrow Mello's vulgar phrasing, wanted to fuck him. L wasn't overly concerned about Light's intelligence, beyond hoping he could apply it in bed, as L had become rather horny during the days of research his paranoia demanded and could use some creative sex.

According to Mello, L didn't need to worry.

So now, having gathered sufficient information, it was time for him to plan his attack.

L, having by this point had worked out a system with the coffee shop waitress, pulled his legs closer in to his body and raised a bony finger, indicating he wanted another slice of cake.

Shameless as those near to him may have claimed him to be, L didn't actually want to approach Light in the middle of what appeared to be a homework session with his sister (smart, gorgeous, charming, _and_ a good brother – apparently Yagami Light was the poster child for upright perfection). It wouldn't really further his purposes of getting Light to sleep with him if L just irritated him.

And L really wanted to sleep with him. He was in-tune enough with his body to recognize _that_.

So, the straightforward tactic of merely walking up and asking to fuck him was out, satisfying as it may have been.

Had the sister been gone and Light sitting by himself, it would have been the ideal situation to approach him and feel out his interest. As it was, L wasn't quite sure how to proceed. L wasn't the most social of creatures, and while he understood the concept of social etiquette better than most, he wasn't as solid in the application of it – mostly because he just didn't care to be.

Right on time, another slice of brain-boosting cake was placed in front of him, and he happily dug in.

The cake really was superb. He'd have to see if Watari could get the recipe. Moist and firm, with the right ratio of cake to icing, and covered with surprisingly juicy strawberries for the season – definitely worth the trip.

And, even better, it gave him the unplanned opportunity to observe Light, even if it was just the back of his head.

(Honestly. Completely unplanned.)

L glanced up from his already nearly depleted cake, intending to lock his eyes on that now-familiar head, but discovered to his disconcertion that while he had been distracted with his admittedly delicious cake, the head had already wandered off, along with the rest of the body.

The table that had formerly held the Yagami siblings was now empty, save for a few drained mugs and crumb-covered plates, which the waitress was already clearing up.

Oh, bother. L's chances of getting sex tonight had just decreased significantly – about eighty percent, by his own calculation.

And, not that it mattered to him, his nosy successors were going to be a little upset with him if he allowed another day to pass without relieving his distraction. They kept urging him to, as Mello phrased it, get his ass going and fuck someone before he drove them all insane. L wondered if Mello would feel the same if he knew it was his ex-boyfriend he was urging L to sleep with.

In any case, all his minions were getting impatient with him – while Matt and Mello were the more vocal, Near seemed to have no problem making his opinion on the matter known with a few twirls of his hair and a dry, monotone observation or two. Even Watari had started putting his two cents in, stating unobtrusively that if L had nothing else to take care of in Japan, there were cases elsewhere that required his attention.

And the situation was getting on L's nerves.

His successors claimed they were being tolerant towards him and his disrupted work ethic, but L had felt it necessary to remind them several times the past few days of two important facts: first, he was L and therefore above reproach from his _underlings_ (and he made sure to stress the fact that they were his subordinates); and second, they should have been familiar enough with his pattern of occasional sexual preoccupation by now to be able to deal with him and his distraction.

He was L; if he wanted to take a week off in order to satisfy one of his biological needs, then he was going to.

After all, this was hardly a new cycle to them. L's interest in things (and particularly people) tended to run like quicksilver – his obsession was intense and comprehensive, but it flared then fizzled out quickly, as soon as he became bored. When he was interested in something, he dug into it with all the tenacity and thoroughness that had been ingrained in him during his days at Wammy's, but once that interest passed, it was hard to recapture.

There were very few things (and again, people) in L's life that managed to hold his attention for more than a fleeting moment.

Detective work, for one, though even then, individual cases were dropped as soon as they were solved and he moved on, finding a new case that would catch his interest.

Watari, for another example – a constant presence in his life for as long as he could remember.

Cake, certainly. No debate there.

Even his successors, despite how much he grumbled about their company, were tolerable enough for him to put up with consistently, which actually was a rather significant feat.

This was why L had never engaged in a serious romantic relationship, or even a relationship that lasted beyond a week at most. People, as a general rule, were just too boring.

Though L really wasn't complaining. His pattern of one-night sexual relations suited him – and more importantly, his career – just fine. Greatest detectives in the world had no time for romance, and L had always felt that a logical approach was best for taking care of sexual needs, with no requirement for emotional attachment or long-term commitment – or any commitment at all.

Emotions were messy, and sex was already messy enough without them.

L felt certain that Light, however distractingly attractive he might have been, would likely be out of his system after one night.

A pair of sensually half-lidded, cognac-brown eyes flashed into his mind.

Maybe two nights.

Abruptly, a friendly voice cut across his musings, calling his attention back to the unfortunately Light-empty present.

"Is there anything else I can get you, sweety?" It was his waitress, smiling down at him with ill-hid affection.

During the three hours L had spent there, she had take to calling him 'sweety' and generally treating him like a little kid, no doubt a reaction which resulted from the amount of cakes and pastries L had eaten under the shop's roof.

Well, the little-kid reaction was much better than the creepy-pedophile-freak reaction, which he sometimes got. He thought it might have something to do with his unconventional manner of sitting and his wide, potentially unnerving stare that he didn't hesitate to level on anyone who came within his vicinity.

And Watari wondered why he didn't like to go out.

"No thank you," he said shortly but politely, hoping Watari would somehow be aware of his efforts to be courteous and award him accordingly, preferably with something sweet and unhealthy. "I think I would like my check now, please."

There. 'Please' and 'thank you' within two breaths of each other. Watari should be pleased.

"I'll get that right for you right away," his waitress assured him with another borderline patronizing smile and bustled away, taking a few of his empty plates with her.

L waited impatiently for her return, now ready to return to his hotel and plan how he was going to approach Light; he also needed to inform Matt and Near it was safe for them to stay the night there, as they had taken to wandering over to Mello's place in the hopes of pushing L along in his 'ridiculously detailed and paranoid plans to get laid', as Matt put it.

But as the waitress approached once more, bill in hand and her short heels clacking against he hard flooring, she was suddenly waylaid by someone L hadn't expected to see again today.

"Excuse me, miss," L heard a certain Yagami Light saying, with his hair looking appealingly windswept and a charismatic smile on his mouth, a smile which L had to admit would be formidable against even the most cold-hearted. "But my sister apparently left her wallet on the seat over there. Did you happen to find it? It's dark blue with green trim." His tone was polite and apologetic, with a charm that sounded so natural it seemed likely he had been born smooth-talking, his first victim the delivery nurse.

In any case, this was unexpectedly lucky. And perhaps a little irritating, L thought as he watched the waitress blush and stammer and pull the described wallet out of her apron pocket, then blush even harder as Light turned his smile up brighter and thanked her.

This was an excellent opportunity to carry out L's plan, if only that encroaching waitress would shove off.

Light was only about five paces away, easily within reach, and it would be a simple matter to ask him to join L for a cup of coffee (or something else, as he might not be in the mood for coffee after the three cups he'd already had), and if he agreed, L knew there was a good chance he could persuade him into his bed for the night.

It wasn't ego; it was intelligently applied experience.

However, L didn't even get the chance to begin to put his plan in action, for at that moment Light's eyes slid around the small shop and locked onto L.

"_You!_"

The voice was smooth and lovely and felt wonderful directed at L, but he had to admit he was a little surprised at the strange mixture of accusation, shock, and eagerness which someone to whom he should have been a stranger was using against him.

Did Light remember bumping into him? That seemed unlikely; L couldn't imagine anyone being quite that upset over such an insignificant collision. L hadn't even spilled anything on him.

Then Light's jean-covered legs were carrying him swiftly towards L, but L didn't have time to be distracted by his legs because Light had reached him and begun talking to him now, and this _certainly_ wasn't going how L had expected.

"Oh my god, it _is_ you," Light breathed, staring down into L's face in apparent amazement as he leaned forward across the table towards L. L blinked – in considerable surprise, but Light didn't need to know that.

Chances that Light remembered bumping into L increased by forty percent.

Chances L would get distracted by the proximity of Light's breath-stopping face and fascinating scent and say something inappropriate increased by sixty.

Chances that…

…Just what was so engrossing about L's face? Light hadn't taken his eyes off L once, staring deeply into his face with a single-minded intensity that, while potentially flattering, was actually beginning to make L a little paranoid.

Did L have some icing on his chin? Had Mello finally managed to write something dirty across his forehead while L slept, like he'd been trying and failing to do for years?

Or, L wondered with growing worry, had Light somehow realized L's identity? It was unlikely, but there was a possibility, in which case L had some serious damage control to take care of and a certain blond successor to interrogate.

L kept his face guarded and stared back into the smooth face studying his with fascination. This could require some delicate handling, and, as always, L would be cautious until he understood exactly what he was jumping into.

"Were you under the impression I was anyone other than myself?" he asked neutrally.

"What?" Light blinked as though he'd forgotten L was there, despite the fact his nose was about four inches away from L's and he'd been running his eyes all over L's face for the past minute. "Oh, right," he said as he seemed to realize what he was doing, and he straightened back up abruptly, though even then he made the movement look smooth and natural.

And L was glad, because as nice as it was to have Light close to him, his body seemed to take it as an invitation to get even closer, which was unacceptable until L's paranoia was satisfied. Or before they had even been officially introduced.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Light asked with an easy smile and a polite voice, somehow creating the feeling that suddenly invading a complete stranger's personal space and staring at him like he was a zoo animal was perfectly acceptable behavior, and L was silly for thinking otherwise.

L was beginning to think Light could toss his drink in someone's face and they'd just be grateful for the refreshing dunk.

L nodded warily and Light sat down, and then the two were sitting across from the other with nothing but air and silent intentions between them. L just wished he knew what Light's intentions were and if they were compatible with his own, because seeing Light face-to-face again was reminding L just how distracting and intoxicating those eyes were.

Light smiled and spoke first.

"Sorry if I startled you earlier," he apologized, his mouth politely smiling and his upper body leaning forward slightly in the perfect image of eager reconciliation.

L, frankly put, was suspicious. It was a natural response; he was paid to be suspicious.

"Allow me to explain," Light continued, clearly intending to explain whether L allowed him to or not. L had the nonsensical urge to refuse, just to see what Light would do, but he stopped himself in time; the likelihood of Light being willing to sleep with him decreased inversely proportionately to how much L annoyed him.

And yes, L still really wanted to sleep with him.

So L nodded again, and Light smiled again.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said smoothly, and L found it surprisingly hard to focus on his words and not the alluring timbre of his voice. It was a nice voice, light and cultured with a sharp edge hidden beneath sophisticated tones and-

"I'd like to draw your face."

L blinked, not having expected that – though he supposed it wasn't terribly surprising, considering what he knew of Light's profession.

Unless…was this a euphemism for sex? Had L just been propositioned? After all, "Would you like to come up and see my etchings?" was traditionally perhaps one of the most clichéd innuendos for inviting someone in for sex.

But such obvious and overused methods didn't fit with what L knew about Light's style. It was almost certain he was using the phrase literally and actually wanted to draw L's face.

"I don't know if you remember this," Light was explaining, "but we bumped into each other a week ago, at the university." Yes, L remembered this. "I noticed at the time that you have a very unique face, and I'll admit I've been a little obsessed with drawing it ever since then."

Well. This was unexpected. How ironic that Light had been just as preoccupied with L as L had been with him, though perhaps for not quite the same reason.

L could use this.

"I guarantee the drawing won't be used for anything besides my own practice, and I won't take up more than a minute more of your time. All I need is to take a picture of you, and I'll be out of your hair, I promise. You won't have to wait at all, since I have a camera on my phone that works fine." Light said this with a warm smile that would have melted anyone else and no doubt made them instantly jump to do whatever that smile wanted, even if it involved questionable legality or possible self-harm.

L, however, was made of slightly sterner stuff than the rest of the population and had a couple of problems with what Light was proposing. First, L couldn't exactly allow pictures of himself to float around unrestricted, no matter what their purpose. Security, and whatnot. Second, if L allowed Light to merely snap a picture of him then wander along his merry way, L wouldn't have a chance to sleep with him. And that was the point of this whole interaction, from L's point of view.

This situation would require some quick thinking, as L wanted to give Light an acceptable reason for refusing to have his picture taken without making himself look like a freak – because again, the main objective here was the get Light to sleep with him (did that need to be reiterated?) and freaks were less likely to get sex.

So.

Traumatic experience as a child? No, that would just make him into an object for pity, and possibly scorn.

Allergic reaction? No, that was clearly ridiculous. There was not a single recorded case anywhere of a person having an allergic reaction to cameras.

Then the only thing left was-

"It is against my religious principles to allow my photograph to be taken."

-perhaps not the most creative or viable excuse, but definitely worth the momentary loss of composure that flitted across Light's face. However, the artist got his surprise under tight control once more – quickly enough that most others would have missed the slip at all, but L caught it.

L was rather pleased with himself; he had a feeling there weren't many who could break through Light's composure that soon into a conversation.

But Light's smile was back in a blink, along with a skeptical glint in his eye and a stubborn set to his jaw which intrigued L, in spite of himself.

"Sorry, I hope I didn't offend you by asking," Light said in a pleasant way that made it clear he didn't believe a word L had said, and L wondered if perhaps he was getting off to a bad start.

It was hard to care when he was finding it surprisingly fun to try riling Light up.

No, he needed to behave, or he wouldn't get sex.

And unfortunately, the more time he spent near Light, the more sex-driven his thoughts seemed to become. That probably wasn't entirely healthy.

It definitely wasn't healthy for his profession.

With that in mind, L said evenly, "I'm sure you had no intention to offend." He kept his face empty of any hint of dishonesty or devious intent, and unconsciously the tip of his thumb rose to his lips, offering itself up for nibbling. "And while I can't allow you to take my picture," he continued obligingly, "I would feel it unfortunate if I couldn't do something to assist you in this matter. Would it be enough to do the drawing live? I assure you I can sit very still."

Ha, L had surprised him again. The reaction was barely perceptible, unnoticeable to the casual eye, but then L was very skilled at reading people's expressions.

This was fun.

And he had to admit, he was somewhat curious as to how and why this Yagami Light had learned to control his expressions so well. Not that it was an uncommon skill, but most civilians L had come in contact with didn't have the same level of proficiency as Light seemed to have. On the other hand, Light had already shown himself above and beyond the norm in other areas of life, so L saw no reason why that shouldn't apply in this case.

Light was regarding him with a pleasantly unreadable expression. "Are you implying you'd be willing to sit for me?" he asked, smiling once again, and L decided it would be better for himself in the long run if he stopped focusing on digging into Light's psyche or past and instead on getting him into his bed. L wasn't here for any reason but to relieve his itch. Light's mind might have been potentially interesting, but L was more concerned with his body at the moment.

"Yes," he answered succinctly, tracing circles absently on an empty plate with a single finger. "As long as it does not take an unreasonable amount of time, I would be perfectly willing to sit and allow you to draw me. Would this be acceptable to you?"

"That would be just fine with me – preferable, actually," Light replied, his face blank of anything but gratitude and the courtesy ingrained in Japanese society, but L could feel his calculating confusion; Light was wondering why L was willing to accommodate a complete stranger to such a length.

L wondered when he'd figure it out.

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you about this," Light continued courteously. L doubted it was sincere; Light seemed the sort to never truly worry about inconveniencing someone else, only repeating the words for the sake of civility and not because he actually meant them.

A trait L found rather interesting.

"It's not an inconvenience," he stated, completely honestly – if he got sex, it wasn't an inconvenience at all.

"Then would you mind waiting a few minutes for me to get my sketchbook? It won't take long."

It was time to escalate the game.

"That is acceptable. I propose I send for my car, and it can return us to the hotel I am currently residing at. After all," L said in perfect innocence, "surely you would have a greater likelihood of success there than here, as it's busy and noisy here?"

Ah, and there it was – the shrewd flicker of eyes, the beginning of realization. Light had most likely picked up on L's true intentions now, a little faster than L had hypothesized he would. L hadn't even needed to eye Light's ass to get his point across, not that L would have minded.

Now all that remained was to see if Light would react favorably to the idea. L knew that even if he agreed, it didn't necessarily mean he was agreeing to sex, but it was considerably more likely to happen than if he insisted on remaining in the coffee shop for the drawing session.

L waited as Light studied him silently across the table for a moment, a space of a few seconds that felt much longer than they really were.

Then-

"That's fine," was the carefully relaxed reply. "I understand if you're uncomfortable, and want to do it in a familiar environment. You'll enjoy it more that way – being drawn, I mean. Many people feel it awkward to sit for a portrait."

L immediately stopped the grin that wanted to stretch across his lips, as it would no doubt end up looking like the creepy sort of grin that tended to scare people off.

_That _comment had been more in keeping with what L expected of Light's style - not only a condescending masterpiece of a civilly hidden snub, but in the same breath it had a barely-there double entendre, really only made significant by the subtle, corner-of-the-eyes glance Light gave with it.

That cocky little minx. L wasn't sure if it made him seem more appealing or infuriating. Probably both.

"Thank you for your understanding," L stated, with out a trace of sarcasm in his voice or a bit of sincerity in his heart, but a great deal of piqued interest in his libido. "Would you like a ride to pick up your art tools?"

Light flashed him a tight but still flawless smile. "That won't be necessary; I'll just meet you in front of the shop in five minutes." He stood in one fluid movement, using his new position to tower in seemingly unintended advantage over L, and held his hand out for the standard western greeting.

"I don't think I've introduced myself yet," he said smoothly. "My name is Light."

L looked at the outstretched hand, up at Light, then back at the hand. Then he lifted his own hand and let them meet, grasping for a long moment.

Light had a perfect handshake, by western standards – firm and leaving an impression of reliability, but not too tight that it felt like was trying to weld a person's hand bones together.

"You may call me Ryuzaki," L rejoined simply as their hands released each other. "I'm curious – what led you to believe I am not of Japanese descent? After all, my coloring is more Japanese than your own. Or do you typically greet people in the western manner?"

A smile. "Just a lucky guess. You are, aren't you?"

L could see no point in denying the truth, so he nodded once.

Light smirked – there was no other word for it – knowingly, and for a moment their eyes just met over empty plates and L's as of yet unpaid bill, left earlier by the waitress. There was nothing else of meaning to say, and both recognized it so both stayed quiet and studied the other briefly.

Then Light spoke, beginning the exchange of necessary but meaningless words of pointless courtesy, assurances of speedy recovery of art supplies, and agreements to meet at the corner; then he was walking out of the coffee shop with a confident stride and a small, victorious smile on his face.

And L's brain began to reevaluate events.

He had made contact with the target (or the target had made contact with him – semantics, really).

The target had agreed to return to L's hotel room with him (not explicitly for sex, but the implication was there and had been received).

The target was even more interesting than L had supposed, and just as gorgeous up-close as he remembered.

All three successors were currently spending the night at Mello's apartment (a fact L found more than a little ironic, considering Light lived on the floor above), and Watari would, as he always did, understand the situation and discreetly stay in another hotel room for the night after dropping them off.

Likelihood of sex that evening: eighty-nine percent.

* * *

><p>Light was fully aware of the potential ramifications of what he had agreed to.<p>

He wasn't an idiot, and he certainly wasn't blind to the interest in Ryuzaki's gaze or the implications of being invited to his hotel room.

At first, when Ryuzaki had declined having his picture taken, claiming religious reasons, Light had thought he merely didn't feel comfortable with the idea of a stranger drawing him - understandable, but stupid to avoid the issue like that when it would be easier to just come straight out with the truth. But then he'd played his next card, inviting Light back to his hotel, and Light had realized what his unspoken intentions were.

It was obvious Ryuzaki wanted to fuck him. He didn't know how Ryuzaki'd known he was gay, but in the end he supposed it didn't really matter.

So yes, Light was aware of what was going on, thank you for your concern, but he didn't see it as a problem.

To put it simply, he wanted to complete that damn drawing. He wasn't about to let this opportunity slip out of his grasp, and if that meant leading Ryuzaki on and letting him think Light was considering sleeping with him, then leaving immediately after he got what he wanted, that was fine. He certainly had no problem using someone in that way.

And Light knew he could take care of himself if things got out of hand; he wasn't a helpless female, by any means. He wasn't worried about that.

What worried him was the fact that he actually found himself considering – considering sleeping with Ryuzaki, that was.

To clarify, Light didn't usually do one-night-stands. He didn't like them, never had.

It wasn't the casual sex he was opposed to (obviously), it was the unnecessary risk and the fact that he had no way of knowing if the other person was some sort of lunatic or riddled full of STD's. It was the uncertainty, the lack of knowledge – it made him feel vulnerable, something he detested.

And yet, he found himself considering, and he wasn't entirely sure why.

Maybe it was because he had spent a week obsessing over Ryuzaki's face, though why he'd want to sleep with the owner of that maddening face that had nearly driven him insane and wasted sheet after sheet of his drawing paper was beyond him.

It wasn't that Ryuzaki was unattractive; he was actually quite good-looking, albeit in an unconventional way - and perhaps that was another reason Light found himself interested.

Light thought most other people boring, both in looks and in personality, and found very few people he could tolerate for any length of time. Mello had been very tolerable, because he was original and actually pretty damn smart and didn't try to suck up to Light because of who he or his father was, because Mello just didn't give a fuck.

There had been a spark of _something_ in Mello that made him stand out, and it was that spark that had made him bearable.

Ryuzaki had that something.

But it wasn't like Mello's, who wore his spark unapologetically in his dauntless grin and bright, clear eyes. Ryuzaki kept his hidden, lurking fathoms-deep in dark, obscured waters.

Light had seen it during their conversation at the coffee shop. It hadn't been in the words, which were covered in a veil of civility and masked intentions, but in the times their eyes met and Light saw the _something_ there – something unknown and deep and with the potential to be infinitely more interesting than the rest of the population Light came into contact with each day, the predictable people he could fool with an effortless smile and empty words.

Ryuzaki was different.

Actually, Light was fairly certain 'Ryuzaki' wasn't even his name, as he hadn't been very subtle about it when introducing himself. "You may call me Ryuzaki" – it was almost like something out of a B-rate spy film, like he wasn't even trying to hide the fact it wasn't his real name.

But Light didn't care what his name was, as long as he got to draw him.

And now Light knew for sure that his memory had done the face justice; it was every bit as unusual as he'd remembered, with the pale skin juxtaposed against the riveting black stare of the eyes, framed by wild dark fringes of flyaway hair. And now that he'd had time to observe closely, he'd realized the rest of the man was just as unusual as the face, strange introductions aside.

Simply stated, the guy was odd. He sat in a strange fetal-position crouch with his feet up on the chair underneath him, and Light was pretty sure the shoes had been left behind on the floor. His pattern of speech had an almost unnaturally even rhythm, and his word choice was somewhat awkward and overly formal, but his voice was smooth and deep and calming and intelligent.

There was something about him that captured Light's attention and made him not want to look away; he was repulsive and appealing at the same time, from his odd, hunched crouch to his piercing, enigmatic black eyes.

He was _interesting_, and Light was starved for a break from the monotony and predictability of his usual social interactions. That was really what it came down to.

Ryuzaki was interesting.

And interesting was arousing.

So Light was considering.

But, while he was definitely considering, seriously considering jumping into bed with this complete stranger, he was still more concerned with finally drawing that damn face and ending his frustration. Etching first, then maybe sex – that was the plan.

He'd just have to make sure things went accordingly.

So, when the car they were riding in - a dark, sleek car driven in comfortable silence by a white-haired and unobtrusive-looking gentleman - pulled to a smooth stop outside a towering hotel, Light stepped out with no qualms, only anticipation.

If things went as intended, then finally this week of distraction would be over.

Sketchbook in hand, he followed Ryuzaki into the hotel.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: There's nothing important in this author's note, so feel free to skip it – except the end, there's something important down there. (It's labeled, so you can skip down.)<em>

_This chapter and I have issues. We need counseling, I think. I suspect it's been cheating on me, too – it's always coming home late, never telling me where it's been, and I don't even remember the last time we had sex. I just don't think it loves me like it used to._

_Today it finally said it thought we should see other people, so I agreed. I'm not going to keep trying to fix an obviously broken relationship. It can see as many damn people as it wants! Chapter Five has told me it loves me, so I'm going to go be with it! Take that, Chapter Four!_

_And this is what happens when you stay up all night writing instead of sleeping. You get terribly fucked up extended metaphors and personification of things that aren't even tangible. What, you thought there was something important in this author's note? (It's further down.)_

_As long as I'm abusing literary devices, let's try for an analogy:_

_Reviews are…the manna to my escaping Jews. No wait, they're the…battery pack to my Power Wheels. No, that's shit too. Reviews are the…they're the…the…ah, fuck it. I really appreciate everyone who reviewed, favorited, and such; that's what I'm trying to say. Reviews keep me going. (Get it? __**Get it?**__ Keep me going…? Yes, I deserve to be shot.)_

_**Something Important**_**: **_No offense intended to people of any religion or beliefs (particularly photo-related). Just want to make that clear. Okay, that's all._

_Thanks for reading._


	5. Teacups and Coffee Mugs

**Chapter Five**

_Teacups and Coffee Mugs_

* * *

><p>"<em>Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go it's one of the best."<em>

_-Woody Allen_

* * *

><p>Ryuzaki's hotel suite was larger than two of Light's apartment.<p>

That wasn't an exaggeration made for dramatic purposes, the sort used by a squealing preteen girl who only knew how to speak in extremes; the suite literally could have fit Light's apartment inside it twice over, with room left for a couple of linen closets. It actually had an upstairs, for god's sake.

The rooms were a little messy and looked well-lived in, as though Ryuzaki had been staying there a while. There were even a few laptops and computers set up – an addition to the room Light found more than a little puzzling – though their screens were a lonely black and their power switched off at the moment.

The scene fit with Light's former opinion of Ryuzaki, however. He could easily picture the odd man as some sort of eccentric millionaire, as the lavishness of the suite seemed to proclaim him to be – wealth excusing his social ineptness as he went about indulging his own strange whims with a carelessly flung wad of cash, even if those whims included setting up an apparent technical support center in the middle of a five-star hotel suite.

Well, the suite proclaimed him to be rich, in any case. Ryuzaki managed the eccentric part all by himself.

"What exactly do you do for work?" Light asked as he pulled his eyes from their study of the opulent sitting room to the suite's current occupant, who had been regarding him silently through the messy fringes of his hair. Ryuzaki's shoulders were slightly hunched and his hands had slipped familiarly into his pockets as he stared at Light with a disturbingly unwavering gaze; Light, had he been a person of lesser self-confidence, probably would have shifted uncomfortably beneath its weight.

But Light had plenty of self-confidence and so was perfectly able to meet the disconcerting black eyes without any discomfort as he waited for a response.

"…Computer software engineer," Ryuzaki answered after a moment, as though realizing an answer was actually expected of him and he wouldn't be allowed to simply stare Light into silence. Light wondered how much social exposure the guy got; he seemed as though he was more used to staring at a computer screen than a person – which, considering his self-confessed job, was very likely.

"Interesting. It must be quite lucrative?" Light asked with another sweeping glance around the expensively furnished room, and then he realized that there was a line between sounding politely curious and sounding like a gold-digging whore, and he was inching towards it. This situation was strange enough without Light making himself seem like some sort of dodgy tramp merely after Ryuzaki's wallet.

All Light wanted was his face, really. Not much to ask at all.

The fact that he was willing to make Ryuzaki think he'd sleep with him to get it – and maybe even really sleep with him – wasn't indicative of anything, and certainly not a potential comparison between him and a gold-digger. Light merely knew what he wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it.

Ryuzaki gazed at him a moment longer, before saying, "It provides adequately for my needs," and leaving the matter simply and ambiguously at that.

Light gave a polite nod, speaking no more, and then there was another silence that should have been awkward but wasn't as they both resumed their studying, Ryuzaki of Light and Light of the room, Light wondering under which definition of 'needs' a two-level suite fell. That wasn't part of any Maslow hierarchy he'd ever heard of.

"…Would you like something to drink?" The words sounded uncomfortable on Ryuzaki's lips, as though they weren't accustomed to him arranging them in that order and didn't quite know what to do with themselves. Another point for the 'Eccentric Millionaire' theory – the man was obviously used to having others wait on him, and when the situation was reversed he seemed to flounder somewhat, though his face never betrayed anything but a neutral, unnaturally bland gaze.

"That'd be nice, thanks," Light answered.

"I believe you'll find the required ingredients to make tea in the kitchen."

Ryuzaki blinked at Light and Light stared at Ryuzaki, then Light realized exactly what the other was implying with his seemingly guilelessly helpful comment.

Another point for the 'Eccentric Millionaire' theory.

And a point for a new theory Light had just started, called the 'Ryuzaki is a Complete Ass' theory.

"Do you want me to make some tea?" Light asked dryly, somehow not surprised that the bizarre man would have the gall to invite a stranger to his hotel then maneuver him into preparing him tea.

Ryuzaki's face lit up slightly, and he nodded happily, evidently pleased that Light had understood so quickly.

"I think some tea would be excellent, thank you for offering," was his matter-of-fact response. "The kitchen is through that door there."

Shameless. The guy was absolutely shameless. And Light wasn't sure if it amused him or irritated him.

Either way, it was interesting. The man was proving to be just as interesting as the face that had tormented Light all week, the face which, even now, Light was finding it a little hard not to focus on and soak up all the details he'd been thirsting for. His fingers had already begun to itch, but he told them to hold still and wait – they'd have a pencil tucked inside them soon enough.

"I'll just go make some tea, then?" Light inquired, insincerely polite but slipping further into this forced host/guest role reversal in spite of himself.

Another slight nod and guileless smile (which Light was becoming increasingly aware was far from guileless) from Ryuzaki, a suppressed eye-roll from Light, then Light was leading the way into the kitchen, his supposed host shuffling along behind looking like a scruffy, inquisitive puppy.

Light wondered if Ryuzaki just didn't want to make his own tea or if he was actually incapable of doing such a common, simple task. Light had no problem believing either of the man.

He switched the light on as he entered, pausing to examine the spotless kitchen (unexpectedly spotless, considering the messy state of the previous room – another indication Ryuzaki had no experience or jurisdiction in the kitchen). The kitchen itself was large – larger than Light's own, a fact he found obscene but unsurprising – and full of smooth, marble countertops and rich, warm stained wood, with gleaming pots and pans hanging neatly on the wall like obedient soldiers awaiting instruction.

A man who didn't know how to make tea had no right to a kitchen like this, even temporarily.

Light grabbed the electric water kettle and the teapot, both already waiting patiently on the counter, and filled them both up with tap water, the kettle with normal water temperature and set to boil, the teapot with water that had been allowed to run to hot first. Ryuzaki settled against a counter, slouching and watching him with dark, observant eyes, but Light ignored him.

Let him watch. Maybe he'd learn something.

Right on time, Ryuzaki said evenly, "You filled both the teapot and the kettle with water." It was spoken as a statement, but Light heard the question hiding within.

"Yes, I did," Light agreed pleasantly. He didn't explain further, hoping Ryuzaki would be curious enough to actually ask. It was childish, but he felt there was some sort of silent competition going on between them that had begun back in the coffee shop, and he while he wasn't exactly sure what it was about, he _was_ sure that he wasn't going to be the one to back down.

"That seems unnecessarily redundant," Ryuzaki clarified.

"Yes, it does." But not as much as the phrase 'unnecessarily redundant', Light decided.

There was a moment's pause, during which Light leaned casually against the counter across from Ryuzaki and waited for the water to boil and Ryuzaki…apparently indulged in the habit of nibbling on his thumb while in thought.

"Ah," Ryuzaki announced shortly, with unneeded satisfaction. "The purpose is to prepare the teapot for the boiling water. The hot water warms the teapot, so the energy from the boiling water is not wasted heating the pot. I assume you will dump the water in the pot out before filling it with the boiling water from the kettle and then brewing the tea. Am I correct?"

"It's a common brewing tactic," Light said a little tartly, resisting the urge to cross his arms because he knew it would make him appear a child. "Any civilized person who had made tea before would be aware of it." That was perhaps uncalled for. Light didn't care.

Merely an hour in his presence, and Ryuzaki was already beginning to chip away at Light's carefully constructed composure, getting under his skin like a persistent tick. Though Light realized that part of his irritation may have stemmed from the fact that every time Light looked at him, that frustratingly undrawable face stared back, unintentionally mocking, challenging him to pick up his pencil and draw it.

But alongside the irritation was the ever-present obsession that had followed him all week, pulling him between frustration and fascination, unable to decide how he felt about the man.

It had been odd, being around the face that had haunted him for the past week, and even odder to realize the man behind the face wanted to sleep with him, but Light could adapt. He'd have that face drawn soon. Then he'd decide what he thought about the face's owner.

Ryuzaki, apparently, saw no need to respond to Light's semi-biting remark beyond a thoughtful blink or two, and another minute passed in silence, save the hum from the kettle. The hum eventually became quieter and deeper, indicating it was close to boiling, and Light was about to empty the teapot of it's warming water when he realized he didn't actually know where the tea was.

He cast a glance at Ryuzaki, who was watching him like a particularly disheveled and perpetually startled owl, and considered asking him where the tea was kept, but thought better of it and instead turned to begin swiftly rifling through the cupboards, with no concern for good manners or his host's privacy. Ryuzaki was unlikely to know where the tea was and probably even less likely to care if Light poked about in his cupboards.

In fact, poking around in cupboards was really part of the whole 'guest making the tea' package. If Ryuzaki didn't like it he should have made his own goddamn tea.

The first cupboard Light opened reminded him an awful lot of the cupboards in Mello's apartment, in terms of pure sugar content. But where Mello's unwholesome indulgences were almost always of a chocolaty nature, Ryuzaki's cupboard was able to boast a somewhat wider variety, though it certainly wasn't any healthier. The two would probably get along spectacularly, were they ever to meet. They could have stimulating discussions about the fastest way to rot your teeth and compare notes on sugar crashes.

"Do you actually eat this stuff?" he asked in mild disgust, eyeing what appeared to be a container of strawberry-cream-filled wafer sticks.

"Did you expect me to use them for any purpose besides consumption?" Ryuzaki returned in his typically inflectionless voice that was beginning to irritate Light's nerves when it asked such exasperating questions.

This guy was really annoying. Why had Light considered sleeping with him again? Oh yeah, he was interesting and Light was bored.

That reasoning perhaps needed to be reevaluated.

Light wanted to helpfully suggest something Ryuzaki could do with those wafers besides consumption, which involved shoving them somewhere he probably wouldn't enjoy very much, but he reminded himself that if he pushed Ryuzaki too far he could get chucked out without the chance to draw him and would consequently have to rely on his memory again, which hadn't gone so well the last time around.

So he regained control of his manners and said an easy, "Not really," then closed the portal into Candyland and pulled open another cupboard.

Luckily, this one actually held tea in it, a variety that almost rivaled the junk food cupboard. Light quickly scanned the assorted brands and types and flavors, and he plucked up an expensive brand of Chinese black tea of which he was particularly fond.

Again, if Ryuzaki wanted to pick what they drank he should have made it himself.

It didn't take Light long to get the tea brewing, his hands practiced and efficient, dumping and scooping and measuring and pouring while Ryuzaki watched the process like a tea-hungry bird of prey. Actually, that statement needed to be reconsidered, Light decided as he started rooting through cupboards for cups and cast a sideways glance out of the edges of his eyes at his oddity of a host; Ryuzaki looked less like a tea-hungry bird of prey and more like a horny one, with his eyes resting on Light will ill-disguised intent. His features were impassive as ever, but his piercing eyes gave him away.

And Light would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the attention even a little, whether it was coming from such a maddening source or not. He had never denied the fact that he had an ego. There was nothing wrong with a little well-warranted admiration, and while Light enjoyed attention he'd never let it compromise his plans.

But he certainly made the effort to, supposedly innocently and unconsciously, stretch his body in an appealing manner as he searched for cups, knowing Ryuzaki's eyes were running along the lithe lines he made.

In the third cupboard he opened, two mugs were located within and ruthlessly separated from their fellows and set on the counter to wait.

"Those are not teacups," Ryuzaki felt the need to state.

"No, they are not, Ryuzaki-san." Light checked his watch; one minute, fifteen seconds until the tea was done steeping.

He really ought to make up his mind whether he was willing to sleep with Ryuzaki or not, he realized. He kept vacillating between an unexplained desire to explore the other's body, to see if he was just as interesting in bed as he was with everything else he had done so far, and wanting to wrap his hands around the man's throat and see what colors he turned when he was deprived of oxygen.

It was a rather confusing situation to be in.

"I am positive there are teacups in this kitchen. I have drunken out of them before."

Light gave a flash of a false, distracted smile. "Sorry, Ryuzaki-san, you should have said so earlier. The mugs will do just as well. I prefer them to teacups, actually, because they can hold more liquid."

Forty-eight seconds left until the tea was done. The important thing was to finish the drawing first; questions of sex could come later. And Light knew that no matter what decision he made, he would walk away with no regrets. He always did.

"I am not accustomed to drinking tea from anything but a teacup, Light-kun."

…Even if this time he had to leave a cooling corpse behind as he walked away.

'Light-kun'? 'Light-kun' did not appreciate being addressed in such familiar terms by someone he had only just met. He hadn't given Ryuzaki his family name, so he couldn't exactly expect him to call him by it, but the 'kun' was out of line.

"It will be a new experience for you then, Ryuzaki-_san_." Light glanced across at the other, who was regarding him with a stubborn frown on his mouth.

Really? Was the teacup/mug issue that important to him? In that case, Light certainly wouldn't be backing down. They were drinking out of those mugs if he had to smash every teacup in the kitchen himself.

…What was wrong with him? He needed to remember that if he pissed off Ryuzaki – as smashing his apparently beloved teacups undoubtedly would – he would probably not get the chance to draw him. But at the moment, Light felt the artistic frustration would be well worth the satisfaction of watching Ryuzaki's face when his teacups lay shattered around his shoeless feet, his abnormally long toes curling over and crunching on the shards.

Which Light found a little worrying, all things considered.

Light knew he was a competitive bastard, and he didn't have a problem with it, but there was something about Ryuzaki that made him into a _childishly_ competitive bastard. And that was just undignified.

Maybe it was because Ryuzaki was such a child himself, as he went right ahead a proved with his next comment: "I don't particularly enjoy new experiences, Light-kun, when I am already happy with the manner to which I am accustomed."

There, see? That sounded just like a mulish four-year-old refusing to try a bite of broccoli. A four-year-old with unusually advanced diction and vocabulary, perhaps, but the sentiment was exactly the same.

_Just try a bite of it, Ryuzaki-chan – it's good for you. Go on, just one bite then you can have dessert._

Though Light had to admit, the image of Ryuzaki as a four-year-old was surprisingly adorable, all big black eyes and wild tufts of hair and practically swimming in an oversized tee-shirt.

…And Light was stopping that train of thought right there before it could get any further out of hand. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but whatever it was it was stopping now.

And oops, the tea had steeped for fourteen seconds longer than he liked.

Slipping easily around Ryuzaki, who had been unconsciously standing in front of the teapot like a territorial Pomeranian, Light plucked up the teapot and poured two mugs before Ryuzaki could object or even realize the tea was done. Then, with a sly, triumphant grin beginning to steal onto his lips, he offered one of the mugs to Ryuzaki.

Bursting into laughter at that point might have been a little odd, but Light was sorely tempted when he saw the startled sulkiness in Ryuzaki's eyes, making him look like an exceptionally unkempt child who just got his favorite toy snatched away. Instead, Light merely smiled warmly and said, "Here you go, Ryuzaki-san. Give it a try; I'm sure you'll like it."

Ryuzaki took the mug warily, as though it were likely to explode on him at the least provocation, ignoring the handle and pinching the middle on each side with an odd, two-fingered hold that looked liable to slip and make a horrible mess at any moment. Ryuzaki was scowling sulkily and Light was smiling politely while still fighting the urge to snicker like a middle-schooler who'd just stuck a tack on his teacher's seat, and _what the hell was wrong with him?_

Light was never this petty and immature, especially not with complete strangers whom he needed to stay in an obliging mood. But looking at the childishly pouting man in front of him, he couldn't really find it in him to care.

"…I do not like mugs, Light-kun, when they are not used for their intended purpose."

Especially when they insisted upon addressing him so familiarly and throwing a fit over something so inconsequential.

"Have you ever tried it?" he asked reasonably, pulling his own mug closer to his body and inhaling the bitter, slightly smoky scent.

"I do not need to try them to know I don't like them."

"I see. Well, sorry about that, Ryuzaki-san," Light said cheerfully, knowing he didn't at all sound sincere and caring even less. "I hope you'll find the tea bearable despite this setback. After all, what sort of cup it's served in shouldn't affect the taste very much." He took a sip of his own drink, as if to prove his point, and said, "Anyway, I'd hate to take up any more of your time, so would it be alright if I started the sketch now? I can drink while I draw."

Ryuzaki blinked at him, looked down at the mug pincered between his own hands, then back up at Light.

"Very well," he stated succinctly, any sign of sulkiness gradually erasing from his features. "But do you not want any sugar or milk?"

"Not with this brand. It actually tastes better without, and it isn't intended to have anything added."

"I see," Ryuzaki said, looking down at his mug with a slight frown once again. Then, as though coming to a decision, he shuffled over to the cupboards, pulled one open, and before Light could realize what was happening had begun pulling out sugar cubes and dropping them into his mug one by one.

...by one, by one, by one…

…splash, splash, splash…

…What the hell was Ryuzaki doing? Didn't he realize he was completely ruining the tea? The cubes were beginning to stack up, dissolving just a little around the edges but mostly just making a tower of tea-ruining monstrosity, and Light could only stare in a sort of morbid, revolted curiosity as, cube by cube, what had once been an expertly brewed cup of tea transformed into a dentist's nightmare – or really, a nightmare for any civilized person over the age of seven.

And Light kind of wanted to gag.

"I hope you don't mind," Ryuzaki said innocently, at last abandoning the rest of the sugar cubes to their fate of waiting fearfully in the cupboard until it was their turn to be devoured by the tea-destroying fiend. "I'm rather fond of sugar, you see."

Light could see, could see it very well in the mug of sludge pinched in Ryuzaki's grasp, and, more importantly he could also see that Ryuzaki had a stubbornness and competitiveness and all-around bastardness to rival his own.

And Light didn't know whether to stare in disgusted shock or to laugh, whether to pull him close and find out exactly what that stubborn mouth tasted like or to punch him in the eye. He settled for his usual flawless smile and for hugging his mug closer into his body, in case it could somehow become contaminated by the gritty sludge contained within its twin, even from the distance of a few steps away.

And he'd settle for drawing. Now, preferably, because he knew exactly which expressions he wanted to capture on Ryuzaki's face – the thwarted, sulky one as he frowned down at his mug and the determined, childish one as he obstinately spoiled his carefully prepared tea merely because he didn't want to drink it out of a coffee mug.

"Of course I don't mind," Light said easily, even partially sincerely – while he was still shocked and pissed off that Ryuzaki had completely saturated his tea with sugar, he was more concerned with getting out of the kitchen and getting a pencil and sketchbook into his hands. "It's your tea, drink it how you like it."

And he would admit to being a little eager to see Ryuzaki try to drink that swill – as Light felt sure the other's pride also matched his own and therefore wouldn't allow him to leave it untouched, not after the sugar-dropping show he'd put on.

"Where would you like to do the drawing?" he asked brightly, taking a careful sip of hot, uncontaminated tea.

"The sitting room will be acceptable," Ryuzaki answered, and since Light agreed he followed him out of the kitchen without protest.

The sitting room had, besides the mess of computers on the north end of the room, two sofas and one armchair arranged in a tidy circle by an atrociously large window that looked out onto the evening-sun-drenched city. Ryuzaki clambered up onto the chair and settled into that odd grotesque crouch Light couldn't help but feel was reminiscent of a gargoyle, and Light snatched up his sketchpad and pencils, left waiting on an end table earlier, and sank comfortably into the couch opposite it.

"I appreciate you being willing to indulge me in this," Light felt the need to say, as the words were polite and he was _always_ the image of good manners and better breeding (at least, when not provoked by stubborn, wild-haired, tea-ruining bastards whom he may or may not want to sleep with). "Don't worry about holding perfectly still; you can move around and talk. I usually draw from memory, so all I really need is your face as a reference."

Ryuzaki nodded in understanding and blinked at Light over his mug, then raised his mug to his lips and…oh god, he was really going to drink that, wasn't he?

Yes, he was. A big gulpful, without even a wince or a bat of an eye to make it go down more easily.

Despite his efforts not to do so, Light couldn't help but imagine what that revolting concoction would taste like, feel like as it slipped down his throat like a thick mouthful of impossibly sweetened mud. He stopped himself from thinking any more about it, for fear of dry heaving, and instead took a deep breath and concentrated on finally – _finally_ – capturing Ryuzaki's essence on paper.

It was, after all, the reason he'd come here. And he would need to concentrate, as it had been a long time since he'd had such frustration over drawing a face.

When Light had first begun sketching, as a bored young boy with nothing to occupy his overactive brain, all he could do for a while was mimic, look at photographs and recreate the lines he saw. He'd had to work to learn the language of faces - to learn how a single minute scratch of pencil could completely alter the expression, to learn what happened to eyes when the mouth below smiled, to learn how to reconstruct a feeling expressed only in the subtle lines of an eyebrow.

The next step, as his hand became more familiar with faces and his pencil freer, was to draw a face without a photograph in front of him. He'd sit outside, an unnoticed schoolboy watching people walk past, and would train his memory to soak up details and lock them away for later, when he could take them out and recapture on paper what he'd seen.

He drew hundreds of faces, each one different and unique, each one a key to understanding a person, and with each one it became easier. In time, he learned to recreate the flavor and essence of a person, not just how their features were arranged; he learned how to see the ways their faces and expression reflected what was inside.

Even now, whenever he successfully captured a personality on paper it gave him a rush of a thrill, the same sort of thrill he got whenever he twisted a game of manipulation in his favor – a sense of empowerment and affirmation of his own superior abilities over others. It required a difficult combination of mastery of a pencil and understanding of human nature, but eventually, from just a short examination or a vague description (though the etchings from the latter were more focused on features than personality), he was able to recreate any face.

Or at least, until he'd met Ryuzaki.

Ryuzaki's face, for some reason, refused to be recreated. It was an annoying, disobedient thing. A stubborn bastard of a face, really.

And Light wasn't going to let it win.

So, seated comfortably in a suite where a single night's stay probably cost more than three months rent at his apartment, Light looked at the face in front of him with fresh, determined eyes.

He looked at the slender lips and the stubborn, rounded lines of the chin, the slight upturn of the nose which fit so well with Ryuzaki's childish nature and the heavy fall of his messy black hair, obscuring almost his entire forehead and trailing into his eyes, and he looked at the rounded tips of his ears peeking out from the mass of black.

Light was avoiding the eyes, and he knew it. But he wasn't used to doing a live drawing, to having a person behind the face staring back at him, watching him just as closely as he studied them, and he'd admit it was a little disconcerting. It wasn't just a face; it was Ryuzaki, sitting a few short meters away from him, alive and breathing softly and not just a photograph or memory.

But he could feel the challenge in Ryuzaki's gaze, even without meeting it yet, and not accepting it was intolerable.

So he let his eyes slowly slide up and lock with Ryuzaki's, acknowledging the heady weight of the very alive gaze. He looked directly into his eyes, focusing on nothing but returning his stare, and when he was satisfied he'd met whatever silent challenge Ryuzaki had extended he gradually turned his attention to the details – to the thin, dark lashes nearly swallowed up in the black lines circling his eyes, to the wide, round contours and to the deep pits in the center.

Then he looked down, into the blank page resting against his knee, and pencil kissed paper, fleeting brushes that slowly became firmer and more deliberate as an outline was developed. Lead spread across the page, some lines hesitant and unsure, some bolder and unapologetic, and together they began to form the tentative yet unfaltering beginnings of a face.

Light's eyes would flicker up to Ryuzaki every once in a while, comparing and checking, studying structure and lines, and each time he did, without fail he would find Ryuzaki staring straight at him. It was odd, like everything else about the man; most people would look away if they knew they would be under such intense scrutiny for an extended period, pretend their eyes were occupied elsewhere to avoid the awkwardness. Yet Ryuzaki looked directly into his eyes the entire time.

Light wondered if this was another challenge, an attempt to sabotage his concentration.

Well, it wouldn't work.

Light could already feel the picture ensnaring his attention, pulling on his focus and claiming it greedily. He was losing himself in the rhythm of stroking and brushing and recreating, slipping deeper until he was consumed as he always was whenever he picked up a pencil, his surroundings fading into the background until all that was left was the face and his own determination.

Or that was what he tried to tell himself.

The problem was, Ryuzaki was not just part of the background; he was part of the process. It was _his_ face Light was drawing, and even if it hadn't been, the depth and weight of his silent gaze would not have been so easily dismissed.

And Light was finding that drawing someone live was quite different than drawing someone from memory or a bit of developed film. Having him right there and looking back, the air between them heavy and silent save for the scratchings of his pencil as Light drew, was turning out to be…unpredictably erotic.

It was intimate, uncomfortably so, electric, almost tangible in its intensity. And it was getting harder to meet Ryuzaki's eyes without getting distracted; it was like his attention was caught in a silent mental game of tug-of-war between two Ryuzaki's, one paper and lead and one of warm skin and warmer blood.

And, to be honest, the breathing one was winning.

Light's eyes flickered up to Ryuzaki's, piercing straight into their depths; he knew exactly what Ryuzaki was trying to do. He was trying to seduce Light, the overconfident little bastard, just by looking at him, creating this thick sexual tension by stubbornly refusing to move his eyes around like a normal person, even when sipping at his disgusting excuse for a drink.

Well, Light wasn't going to tolerate that. If there was going to be any seducing going on around here, it would be done by him.

The sketch could be finished later.

So Light kept drawing, but his attention was now focused entirely on the Ryuzaki seated across from him, crouched on the chair like a goblin that had wandered out of a dark, twisted labyrinth somewhere. He kept his eyes on his paper, his pencil moving on automatic, unconnected to his brain, and allowed his other hand to casually steal upwards and softly slip the first button on his shirt open. His hand, seemingly unconsciously, then slid in and under the relaxed shirt and began rubbing slow circles into his shoulder, as though loosening stiff muscles.

When his hand stole away once more, Light was left with a conveniently widened neckline that looked both natural and alluring as it allowed a better glimpse at the curve of his collarbone and the smooth planes of his chest and the strong, elegant contours of his neck.

Never let it be said that Yagami Light knew nothing of the art of subtle seduction. After all, his body was just another tool to manipulate, to use against someone and further his own desires, and he took great pleasure in doing so.

He let a soft sigh curl out of his lips, never taking his eyes off his paper and knowing Ryuzaki hadn't taken _his_ eyes off of him. His hand snaked up to run through his hair, leaving it gently tousled, and his eyebrows were allowed to pull in a slight, frustrated frown. He was the picture of diligence and concentration, on the surface, but it was lightly, unintentionally sexualized, like an advertisement for a superior brand of cognac.

Well, no – the sexualization was completely intentional, just as it was in an advertisement; but it wasn't blatantly apparent that this was the case, and that was what was important.

Seduction, he'd learned, was almost always about pretend. In simple terms, it was about discovering what appealed to the seductee and about pretending to have whatever that was, pretending your actions weren't contrived – because seduction was no fun when it was heavy-handed and blatant, out in the open and acknowledged by anything more than sly, under-the-lashes glances and subdued body language.

It was a game, meant to be played with a light hand and a silver tongue, and Light didn't like playing with people who didn't understand this. Seduction was different from sex, which was meant to be many things but at its best was always consuming and driven by a fire of passion, whether it be love, lust, or hate.

Seduction was subtle, the first breath of a fine liquor, tickling the senses as it delicately ensnared all in its elusive-fingered grasp, the hint of intoxication. Sex was actually consuming the liquor, allowing the alcohol into the body's system, from the tentative sip of a first embrace to the drunken haze of tossing back the entire bottle and letting the poison run its course.

Ryuzaki seemed to understand this. He seemed to understand the game, and that was perhaps the deciding factor that tipped the scales for Light towards sleeping with him. That, and the fact that Ryuzaki somehow managed to set off all Light's competitive land mines, and what was sex if not another means of challenge and confrontation?

It was filled with pleasure, yes, but the underlying theme was the same – full of domination and taking and giving and intensity and manipulating power struggles. It was a subtle battle when done right, and contrary to what many believed, the victor wasn't decided by whose dick went where. People who believed the one being fucked was always the one with a dick inside were fools, blind to the complexity of sex and forever limited in their own potential.

Light'd had several boyfriends in the past who saw sex in such black-and-white terms, who'd thought that just because they'd stuck their dicks in him they were somehow the one in control, and he'd had great pleasure in proving to them otherwise.

Sex, like seduction, was a game, with intricate dynamics and many possible outcomes. And sometimes it was fun to completely overwhelm an opponent with ease – a sort of affirmation to the ego – but most of the time it was only interesting if the other player had a comparable mastery of the game.

And it seemed like Ryuzaki might. And he was interesting, with a fascinating face and maddening manners and he was staring at Light with steady, intense black eyes that were doing funny things to Light's spine, so why the hell not?

So Light played the game, manipulated his body and pretended not to notice the teasing way his hand rubbed at the inside of his knee and slipped casually upwards to rest on his thigh, innocently suggestive as he focused on his sketchbook; he pretended not to notice the way his teeth nipped at his lower lip, the enticing way his head was tilted, or the way his eyes burned as he occasionally glanced up through the veil of lashes.

And he pretended not to notice the growing desire in Ryuzaki's gaze as it brushed against his skin as tangibly as any fingers.

Or the way Ryuzaki set his drained mug to the side and stepped off the chair, long legs unfolding and straightening as they met the floor, and shuffled closer, climbing onto the couch next to Light. It was only when he was completely settled in that Light glanced up, meeting Ryuzaki's eyes without words, now just an arm's length away.

And once more, the game was escalated.

There was a slight cautiousness in the way Ryuzaki regarded him, his head cocked slightly to the side, like a curious dog warily approaching a lazily dozing cat, wanting to get closer but afraid to scare it away. Light supposed that would make him the feline in that comparison. That was alright with him; cats were clever, predatory creatures and he had no problem being associated with them.

This was a point of turning, a point where both were openly acknowledging the tension between them, even if it wasn't explicitly in words. It was a moment of understanding and connection and meeting of intentions and _yes, we really are going to sleep together, aren't we?_

And Light felt nothing but a curl of eager anticipation in his gut.

So, admittedly rather cat-like, he met Ryuzaki's eyes and slowly reached a hand forward, his fingers unfurling gracefully and extending towards the other's face. His hand hesitated, for just a breath of a moment, then the tips connected with the pale cheek, soft as a butterfly's wings.

Ryuzaki's eyes fluttered shut.

With the intensity of the gaze gone and no longer distracting him, Light was able to focus more intently on the rest of his features. His fingertips traced them slowly – along the obstinate jaw and chin, delicately underlining the closed eyes and barely brushing against the gentle lashes, carefully trailing down the slope of the thin nose. As they reached the almost colorless lips below, his fingers slowed, tracing the pale outline with a whisper of a touch. Ryuzaki's lips parted slightly and Light could feel his breath brush against his fingers, soft and warm.

Then Ryuzaki's eyelids slowly lifted back open; Light found those black eyes locked with his once more, and something electric overtook his spine.

Ryuzaki's body shifted closer, steadily closer, while Light's hand slipped away forgotten from his face to wrap around his arm, then Light was getting gently pushed down against the couch, his sketchbook slipping unnoticed to the floor, and he couldn't stop the smirk from spreading across his lips as Ryuzaki drew closer, until they were just inches apart, their noses brushing.

"You're smiling," Ryuzaki said, his own face serious. "I find that worrying." And Light couldn't help it but that only made his smirk wider, and he didn't care because he could already tell Ryuzaki was hooked, caught in the beginnings of intoxication, ready to play the game, and _god, this was going to be fun._

So he chuckled softly and said, "I don't think you'll let it stop you, though," and Ryuzaki must have agreed because he closed that last bit of space between them – then their lips were connected and it was a beginning, a taste of potential and challenge, and Light knew that no matter how this ended, he could guarantee it would definitely be interesting.

And they both closed their eyes and gave in to the poison.

* * *

><p><em>Four hours later<em>

Light was quite a skilled artist – even L, who had never found himself particularly inclined towards the world of artistic expression, could see that.

And Light probably wouldn't have appreciated L looking through his sketchbook as he slept blissfully unaware, but that was the danger he exposed himself to when he decided to commandeer the bed they'd somehow wound up on during the course of the night's events, then decided to fall asleep on it without a care for L's comfort or wishes.

L supposed he could have woken him from his high-handed slumber and chucked him out, as he usually did with those he slept with, but for some reason that hadn't seemed very appealing. He didn't really have a problem with Light sticking around until morning, considering the fact that he wasn't in the mood to sleep himself.

His body was tired, pleasantly drained, but his mind already had all systems firing, buzzing distractedly but with nothing specific to mull over. It was a vague busyness, flitting around and keeping him from sleep.

So he'd padded into the sitting room and curiously picked up Light's abandoned sketchbook, then settled down to nose through it.

It was impressive, the way each face portrayed was distinct and unique, with its own flavor and personality. He could see how Light had gotten his job. Speaking of which - he'd found, with mild interest, the picture of the smuggler Mello had recognized and subsequently called to his attention, leading to the closure of that particular case.

And he saw several depictions of Mello himself in there: in one, his mouth open wide in noisy laughter; in another, caught in the peaceful grasp of sleep; and on the next page, his eyebrows quirked in caustic sarcasm as he stared disbelievingly at the viewer. There were others of him too, providing an unexpected catalogue of Light and Mello's relationship through the former's eyes.

It was the sort of thing most people would feel at least a little guilty about snooping through. L had no such conflicts of conscience.

Eventually, he reached the last filled page of the sketchbook and experienced the strange sensation of having his own face staring up at him.

L blinked. Paper-L didn't.

This sketch was…good. Skillfully done, and technically excellent, though obviously incomplete.

But it wasn't at the same level as Light's other work. It wouldn't meet the standards L expected Light would have. There was something the sketch lacked that all his other work had, and L hypothesized that Light would not be content with the drawing.

It was ironic, he decided. Light had been using the possibility of sex to get his drawing, L had been using the possibility of the drawing to get sex, and in the end neither of them were satisfied. No, that was misleading – L had been _very_ satisfied, thank you; Light had surpassed all his expectations in bed, even better than he'd imagined.

But L had discovered that instead of getting Light out of his system, as intended, sleeping with Light had only made his desire worse. It was like scratching at a bug bite and irritating it more, a momentary relief then back twice as intense as before.

Addictive – that was what Light was, from his frightfully competitive nature and stubborn determination to challenge L at every turn (even when merely concerning what kind of cup tea should be served in), to his teasing, sly smirk and languid sexuality that he exuded without any apparent effort. L found him both irksome and intriguing.

It had the potential to be troublesome.

But L wasn't worried.

It was just sex, and if it truly got out of hand the urge could be squashed like any other. He would be irritable for a while, but sexual relief was easy to find elsewhere. And it was unlikely the situation would get out of hand.

He knew he would eventually grow tired of Light, like he did with all his other sexual partners – it just might take him a little longer than the usual one or two nights. But that was alright as well, because judging from the way this night had gone L felt confident Light would be interested in exploring where else their sexual potential together could go as well.

Sex with Light had been more…intense than what L was accustomed to. More involved. He supposed it could be adequately explained just by the word 'more' – more passionate, more playful, more consuming, more engaging, more spirited, just_ more_. They had good chemistry, both mental and physical. And L wasn't quite ready to give that up yet.

That wasn't to say, by any means, that L had formed any sort of emotional attachment to Light. He was certain Light felt the same way about him as well. One night was hardly enough time for a connection to be formed, and L wasn't the type to become attached anyway – nor, did he think, was Light.

But he felt they both recognized the potential satisfaction of a brief sexual relationship between the two of them until it got boring, in which case they'd both be content with going their own ways with no pain or drama.

At the very least, a round of morning sex before they parted ways was in order.

Satisfied with his reasoning, his mind decided it was at rest enough to sleep, so L decided to get a few hours of rest before morning arrived. Even insomniacs slept, after all.

However, paranoid, insomniac super-detectives usually had a problem sleeping in the same room as a stranger, even strangers with whom they'd just exchanged numerous bodily fluids.

But Light was in his bed, and L was just now realizing how that could potentially be a problem. L was rather picky about beds, and he knew if he tried sleeping in any of the other beds in the suite he'd never get to sleep. And sleep was sounding surprisingly nice right now.

It probably wouldn't be a significant problem to sleep in the same bed with Light; L calculated there was only an eight percent likelihood of something undesirable happening, which he considered worth the risk. After all, he had cameras set up around the suite (he'd have to remember to remove the night's tapes before his nosy successors arrived) and he was confident he would be awake before Light anyway - L was shockingly easy to waken. If something happened he felt he would be adequately prepared.

So, setting the sketchbook to wait on the couch, he treaded quietly back into the bedroom and clambered onto the bed with only a moment's hesitation.

He had to push the curled-up lump that was Light a little ways to the left to make room, but he was able to do this without problem and without waking the lump. Then, slipping himself into the covers, he let his eyes drift shut and allowed sleep to overtake his mind.

* * *

><p>On the other side of the world, somewhere in the heart of Germany, a paranoid art collector decided to have a recent acquisition examined by experts.<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN: "How can you eat while we're being attacked by koopas with machine guns?" –Spoken vehemently by an appalled seven-year-old gamer. I thought it worthy to be shared. And if that doesn't warn you of the uselessness of this author's note, nothing will. Feel free to skip!<em>

_And look at that! We actually got some sex in this chapter. (Who didn't see it coming?) Nothing terribly explicit, though - a lot of talk about sex but no real on-screen action. I don't apologize. (But I do - I'm on your side. It's the plot that's pushy, insisting I put stuff besides just gay sex in. It's a demanding little bastard with no hormones.) I warned you in the first chapter I likely wouldn't have any smut in this story._

_I have a cold and a fever at the moment, which seems a little contradictory. Nothing serious, but pity me anyway, please, because god knows I'm not already pathetic enough (this is self-depreciating sarcasm). And be grateful, because it was the reason this chapter got done as quickly as it did (this is not sarcasm, not even the self-depreciating sort)._

_Reviews were like kiddie Mucinex to me, and I mean that in the best way possible. (You thought the horrible abuse of literary devices was over? You should have realized I hadn't tormented the similes enough yet.) Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter!_

_Oh, and one last thing- you recall that 'Four hours later' heading thing I stuck up there, after the page break when they're fucking? That isn't implying they were going at it for four hours. (That isn't implying that they __**weren't**__, either.)_

_Thanks for reading, and remember – do you really want to be the person whose tombstone reads, "Too busy eating to fight back the machine gun-wielding koopas"? Think about it._


	6. Mornings and Decisions

**Chapter Six**

_Mornings and Decisions_

* * *

><p>It was odd, waking with someone next to him. L couldn't remember the last time he'd shared a bed with another body. He wasn't sure he ever had.<p>

At the orphanage, when a child, he'd always had his own room, as Wammy House was large and genius orphans were few. Of his life before, he had no memory and therefore no way of knowing what his sleeping accommodations had been for the first four years of his existence. And as an adult, whenever he indulged in sexual relations, he either kicked the other person out after the act was completed, seeing no need to be polite once his needs were satisfied, or they left themselves – as they had the discrimination to perceive he didn't want them there anymore and lacked the arrogance to stay anyway.

Unlike certain other people, who, with a lazy smirk like a contented cat, said, "That was fun," then curled up in a ball and promptly fell asleep on other people's beds. L was unaccustomed to such arrogance from his sexual partners. Yet he had found himself, for the most part, unbothered by it.

It was cavalier, egotistical behavior – either assuming he was welcome to stay in L's bed or not caring enough to leave if he wasn't (L guessed the latter was closer to the other man's thought process) – yet when Light did it he made seem like he was doing _L_ a favor, rather than encroaching on his hospitality. But at the same time, L felt sure Light had done it with the explicit purpose of irritating him.

And he found it terribly interesting.

Just like Light himself. Light was interesting. _Sex_ with Light was interesting. _Conversation_ with Light had thus far been interesting. And trying to get under Light's skin, irritate him and break his composure, return a snide remark for each barbed retort, was certainly very interesting and much more fun than it should have been.

Speaking of which, L had a bit of revenge to exact for a certain tea-filled coffee mug from yesterday evening. It was petty and immature, yes, but L had never denied he possessed either of those traits.

So, with a glance at Light's face beside him, which was tucked halfway beneath the cover and still caught in that peaceful suspension of sleep which made devils appear to be angels and gave youth to the aged and weary (and, apparently, made flawless Greek statues out of Light-kuns), L slipped covertly from under the blankets and half-tiptoed, half-shuffled out of the bedroom.

A clock in the sitting room obligingly informed him of the time, which was a little after seven o'clock. A Friday morning, with birds talking over each other outside the windows; L wondered if Light had classes today, and he marveled at the irresponsibility of college students who indulged in sexual acts on a night before they had school.

It would be a pity if Light were to be late for a class, as that was probable to make him annoyed, which annoyance would most likely be unreasonably directed at L.

L was, perhaps, a little too pleased by that prospect.

But such matters could be taken care of later. At the moment, L was more concerned with locating Watari and arranging for some breakfast. And what sort of host would he be if he didn't provide something for his guest? With such pure intentions in mind, L spotted his cell phone waiting obediently on the coffee table and pinched it up, swiftly pecking in Watari's number.

Usually, by this time of the morning, Watari would already have returned from wherever he'd spent the night while L released sexual tension, often with breakfast and morning tea in hand. Today, however, there was no Watari (or breakfast pastries) in sight.

It was easy to deduce what had happened. Watari had no doubt returned while L and Light were still wrapped in sleep, seen the extra pair of shoes remaining by the door and concluded Light was still present in the suite, so had likely left quietly, in his typical calm and unruffled manner, waiting just a phone call away until his services were needed. Watari could always be counted on to act in greatest propriety and efficacy.

He was a loyal, resourceful soul; whether serving the perfect cup of tea (in a _teacup_, as it was meant to be served) or sniping a dangerous criminal from the unsteady support of a helicopter, he had been at L's side, discreetly and competently attending to his needs. And for thanks he got to put up with L and his three nosy successors bickering day in and day out. L sometimes wondered if Watari was an occupational masochist, as he certainly didn't understand where his job satisfaction could come from when babysitting four temperamental geniuses.

Against L's ear, two subdued rings finished sounding out, followed summarily by a courteous voice.

"_Ryuzaki."_

"Watari," L returned pleasantly. "Is breakfast prepared?" he asked in English, as was his custom when speaking exclusively with his faithful sidekick.

"_For the most part, sir. I have prepared you a tray of your favorite pastries today, in the French manner. However, I was unsure what your guest would prefer, as I doubt he shares your unusual tastes in sustenance, so I prepared a variety of traditional Japanese and western breakfast choices from which he can choose."_

There was no indelicate hesitation before the word 'guest', just as befitted a butler-like figure such as Watari. L, in a vague sort of way, appreciated this. Not that he really would have cared; but Watari's opinion was one he had always valued a little more than others', so he was glad he had never shown any blatant disapproval of L's manner of releasing sexual frustration. Watari, after all, was from a more traditional generation and, despite his considerable tolerance towards L and company's exploits, was more likely to frown upon casual, one-night relationships.

Yet he never did, and L was glad.

"Thank you, Watari," he replied, exercising his oft-absent manners. "I'm sure Light-kun will be pleased. Do you have coffee prepared? I happen to know he is quite fond of coffee."

"_Yes sir, I have a pot ready."_

"Excellent," L said in satisfaction, perhaps a little more satisfaction than was strictly necessary. "Also, I believe Light-kun is rather peculiarly particular about how his coffee is served and will only drink it from a teacup, so would you be sure to accommodate him in this?"

This request was followed by a rather eloquent silence, one which informed L that Watari saw straight through his innocent words and directly to his mischievous intent, but he had no intention to involve himself or even understand what L could possibly gain from his inexplicable desire to serve his guest's coffee in a teacup.

"_Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?"_

"That will be all."

"_Very good. I shall be there shortly."_

L clicked off before Watari could, never having understood a reason to waste time with unnecessary words of farewell.

He wasn't entirely sure where Watari had gone to prepare this varied and probably lavish breakfast; L rather suspected he had politely hijacked the hotel's kitchen, though he was resourceful enough that there were at least a dozen different means by which he, with infallible ease, could have ensured L's breakfast was prepared on time. But L hardly ever concerned himself with how Watari fulfilled his duties, which was itself a sign of how capable butleresque man was – L didn't _have_ to worry about it. If L didn't know better, he might have wondered if Watari was truly human and not a product of advanced human-aid robotics.

L replaced his phone and glanced around the room, bathed in the pale, washed-out light of morning, and listened as there was a sudden rush of noisy, pipe-carried water through the walls.

Ah. Light was awake – and apparently taking advantage of L's shower.

This was fortuitous.

And a little arrogant of Light, to high-handedly take it for granted that he was welcome to L's shower, as he was his bed. But L, as mentioned before, was coming to learn that arrogance came as naturally to Light as breathing, though it was covered in an intoxicating haze of charm that many people likely failed to see through. L wasn't so blinded.

But neither was he repulsed by the arrogance, surprisingly. It was…refreshing, in a way. Interesting, despite the ways it could potentially clash with his own admitted ego.

And if it resulted in a wet, naked Light-kun in his shower, L was all for it.

He took another look at the helpful clock from earlier and discovered it was twenty-two minutes past seven o'clock. Watari would probably arrive with breakfast within three minutes, give or take about forty seconds. Light's food would most likely be cooled within twenty minutes (he didn't need to worry about the pastries cooling, as they were served at room-temperature), considerably more if Watari left a warming cover over it (ninety-seven percent chance of this happening); the coffee would be unpleasantly bitter (the sort of bitterness that couldn't even be smothered out with sugar) within forty-seven minutes.

Plenty of time for shower sex.

And there was no reason not to take advantage of Light's continued presence in the hotel - after a week of obsessive research and almost exclusively Light-centered thoughts, L thought it rather silly to have assumed he would have been satisfied with one night. Light was obviously meant to be a fine delicacy of a cake, deserving to be spread out, savored and unhurriedly consumed – as opposed to say, a low-quality chocolate bar, which, while tasty and full of the necessary sugar to make something edible, in truth only required a few quick chomps to get the full possible enjoyment (not unlike the majority of L's sexual partners).

Yes, Light was a cake. A superior red velvet cake, perhaps: eye-catching, exotic, smooth and beguiling with a subtle hint of chocolaty taste that nevertheless addicted the tongue and made lesser cakes pale in comparison. Or maybe a chiffon cake: light and airy with a sophisticated appeal.

No, neither of those were quite right. Red velvet was too garish, chiffon too common and lacking in substance. Light was a cake both elegant and distinctive, light yet complex, savory and subtly addictive without overpowering the senses with richness – maybe with a dash of liquor to account for the intoxicating influence his presence gave.

Perhaps a tiramisu? That could be fitting. The coffee-soaked savoiardi and sprinkled cocoa powder supplied a bitter contrast to the sweet egg and mascarpone mixture, giving it a complexity and balance between two paradoxical extremes, and the frequent addition of a dark rum or sweet Marsala wine was appropriate.

L would have to give this some more thought. Perhaps if he tried eating a variety of cakes directly off of Light, he would be able to find a more suitable comparison. And if this happened to lead to sexual relations, L certainly wouldn't complain.

But the time for that was later. At the moment, Light's shower time was swiftly slipping away, and it would be an unconscionable shame to allow this opportunity to run by ungrasped. Wet, naked Light-kuns did not usurp his shower every day, after all.

And L was nothing if not opportunistic. If the next time Light strolled out the door of L's suite was the last time L saw him, then he intended to make the most of the time he was still confined within its walls. It was the only rational thing to do, really, when presented with someone as attention-snaring as Light.

Because L wanted a little more. He wanted another taste, at least another bite of cake before he let Light run off. And he was surprised by the extent to which he didn't want Light to run off quite yet.

It was unusual, and when something was unusual L felt it his duty, as _L_, to dig into the matter and satisfy all curiosity.

Light had been interesting; Light was still interesting after a night of sex, and to put it in very juvenile terms, L wasn't quite done playing with him yet - and he only had a little time left to convince Light that he should feel the same.

The game wasn't over yet.

So with such conscientious thoughts in mind, L pushed all thought of cake analogies aside for the moment and shambled happily towards the shower, where a slice of Light-kun was waiting.

* * *

><p>Light had not been surprised when he felt Ryuzaki slip into the shower behind him.<p>

Nor had he been surprised by the sneaky, wandering hands that slipped around his soaped-up torso, making no pretence of their lascivious intentions as strands of black hair tickled at his shoulders and neck.

He wasn't surprised by the way teasing touches turned bolder and more deliberate, or by the way his body began burning in interest as he relaxed into the hands.

He wasn't surprised that washing became less and less interesting; he wasn't surprised when the soap slipped forgotten to floor, sudsy water swirling friendlily around it and two pairs of dripping feet.

He wasn't at all surprised at the wasted water and time, and certainly not by the consequential need for another rinse, a little while later.

Then, when both were dried and clothed (Light unfortunately having little choice but to don his wrinkled, day-old outfit) and a little less horny, he wasn't surprised by the opulent, varied breakfast spread he found waiting them in the kitchen, warm and reviving and enticing – aside from the death plates of sugar likely intended for Ryuzaki, of course. Those, unsurprisingly, seemed gritty, suffocating in sugar, and enough to make his teeth ache just looking at them.

Light _was_, however, surprised when he saw the mocking, coffee-filled _teacup_ smirking up at him near a plate of the teeth-hating pastries, though he recognized immediately that he really ought to have expected it. This was undoubtedly Ryuzaki's doing.

An innocent glance and casual "_Is the coffee not prepared to your liking, Light-kun?"_ thrown his way by Ryuzaki confirmed this, reminded him of the exasperating, fascinating nature and spark of electrically charged rivalry that had so intrigued him last night and made their fucking so intensely _interesting_ – so he accordingly wasn't surprised when, a few minutes and increasingly juvenile comments later, they were shoving each other onto the breakfast table and trying to eat each other's face off, almost knocking over a still-warm cup (_goddamn teacup) _of coffee and several other carefully prepared dishes, both aware that they were unlikely to get hard again that soon but sure as hell going to do what they could in the meantime.

And a meantime later, after breakfast and an attempt to straighten his considerably-more-wrinkled-than-before clothing, which still weren't anywhere near the natural state of Ryuzaki's perpetually disheveled clothes, Light realized that if he didn't want to be stuck in his unpresentable clothes for the rest of the day, he'd need to be leaving within the next fifteen minutes or he'd run out of time.

So, after another coffee-laced kiss and a "_I need to get going_," he tracked down his sketchbook in the sitting room, Ryuzaki meandering along behind to pause in the doorway, and he was unfortunately unsurprised one last time – this time by the quality of the final sketch contained within.

"This is shit."

And it was. But what else had he honestly expected when he'd allowed himself to be distracted the entire time he was drawing it, eventually abandoning it completely in favor of fucking with the face's owner? That was not the sort of situation conducive to artistic success.

But he didn't regret it. And he didn't regret breaking his usual 'no one-night-stand' policy that had stuck with him throughout his sex life. He'd been right, as he always: Ryuzaki had been a fascinating fuck, one who knew how to play the game and wasn't afraid to challenge Light, with clever hands and a forceful gaze and a will to match his own.

"Maybe it can be salvaged," Light said, speaking of the unpromising sketch in his hands without much enthusiasm. It didn't really matter, he supposed. Sleeping with Ryuzaki had been a diamond mine of new perspective, and Light felt confident that with this new information he would be able to finally pin down that damn convoluted, paradoxical essence. The night had been a success, in more ways than one.

Fucking was an excellent means of insight on a character, much better than just sitting around looking at a person.

"In any case," Light continued airily, "I don't think it would accomplish anything to try doing it live again. I don't think it's a problem with memory – it's a problem with your face. I'll just have to keep working on it."

Ryuzaki, who had wandered closer as Light examined his work, poked his head curiously over his shoulder, black eyes roving over the page.

"There is nothing wrong with my face. And you're too harsh, Light-kun. It is actually a quite skilled drawing."

"Ryuzaki, I have no doubt that even you, who I suspect to be more artistically unintelligent than the majority of the population, can tell this drawing is missing something. And since your face has thus far refused to be drawn, I would call that something wrong with it."

Light felt Ryuzaki's body get even closer to his back – but never touching, their clothes only barely brushing.

And the distraction of Ryuzaki's sudden presence behind him was unavoidable – a constant warmth spreading across his back, a quiet note of understated tension. It was the first word of another conversation, spoken with their bodies and unheeding of what their mouths were saying.

"It is immature to blame your difficulties on my face, when it is clearly never the subject's fault in artistic matters such as this," Ryuzaki returned evenly, quietly, and without hesitation, his breath tickling the back of Light's neck and sending flickers of awareness up and down his spine. "Also," he murmured, a little sulkily, "I would never call myself unintelligent in any aspect of life. Less experienced, perhaps, about things that don't matter, but never unintelligent."

Light didn't bother glancing back at him to see the pouting frown pulling down his lips, having seen it enough by now to imagine it quite well without doing so. Instead, he kept his head forward and his voice causal, his body hyperaware of the presence behind him, his mind annoyed by the childish argument despite this.

"That," he said decisively, "is because you clearly have an ego the size of one of the Wonders of the World and would probably never say anything that would make yourself look stupid, however true it might be."

A hesitant finger, softer than a child's kiss, brushed along the curved shell of Light's ear, setting off an explosion of tiny shivers throughout the nerve endings in the back of his neck and dropping all the way down his spine – at odds with the blunt, unemotional words that came with the timid touch.

"It's very interesting how quickly your façade of civility drops after sex, Light-kun."

That ass.

However, Light let his body relax into Ryuzaki's, his back meeting the solid warmth of Ryuzaki's chest. He reached a casual arm back over his shoulder, comfortably hooking it around to palm the side of Ryuzaki's head. His fingers began to slip through black hair like they would a deck of cards, stroking with light tugs and almost absentminded allurement.

"And it's interesting how _you_ seem to think sex gives you the right to call my good manners a façade," he said carelessly, "especially considering you have absolutely none to speak of."

Ryuzaki's head dipped down and forward just a bit, almost as if he was nuzzling into Light's hand, giving Light the incongruous feeling he was stroking the head of a particularly friendly dog. He immediately let his hand slide down to play along the side of Ryuzaki's neck instead, fingertips trailing with a feather's touch.

"I have good manners," Ryuzaki insisted, tilting his head now to brush his nose against the sensitive bump at the base of Light's neck; Light could feel his breath ghost across his skin. "I merely see no logical reason to falsely employ it, as certain other people frequently do," he added, speaking softly into Light's spine.

"I think you know as well as I do that manners are almost always insincere," Light said, quietly, sardonically. "The purpose for manners isn't to be sincere – it's a means of smoothing out human interactions. Courteous phrases like 'please' and 'thank you' and the like are hardly ever said in honest good will, and I'm sure you know that. You're just trying to palm off being a manner-less bastard as being honest and genuine. I can tell you're really just a tactless prick that can't be bothered with courtesy or civility."

"How very cynical of you."

A hand curled over his hip, tentatively clasping where it had gripped in unrestrained fervor the night before, its touch a silent question – but Light had no attention to give it because at that moment his eye had caught the sight of a clock on the wall.

Damn it. Ryuzaki had distracted him again. He was proving unusually good at that.

"I need to go," Light said, not moving. Ryuzaki's hand didn't move either, didn't slide down his thigh distractingly, didn't lift off his body obligingly – just waited. "I have a class in thirty minutes, and I need to change my clothes." And still they didn't move.

Light knew that the pose they were standing in – Ryuzaki pressed against his back, Light's own hand blindly stroking Ryuzaki's neck, both sharing gentle, comparatively innocent caresses – would seem to an outside perspective to be oddly familiar and tender for two strangers who'd simply shared a night of casual sex.

But that was from an outside perspective.

Light - and, he felt, Ryuzaki - knew this fabrication of intimacy was just another game between them, an illusion and a mockery of a lie, a caricature of affection while really a nod of twisted recognition to what they truly were: strangers caught in the start of a game, the beginnings of two paths.

Because this, he realized, was a forked-road moment, a time when the path before their feet split into different potentials. And before they went any farther, they needed to decide which trail to take.

On one side, a clearing: familiar and predictable, easy to see the outcome ahead. They could take this turning and both continue their lives as though the past twelve hours – past week, really – hadn't happened, only recalled in the vague memory of a single night with a stranger who knew the game, who could handle the willful pull of the intoxication, could consume and in turn be consumed. They'd share a significant glance of _that was fun, thanks_ and Light would walk out the door, finish his etching and move on with his life, as Ryuzaki moved on with his.

And that would be fine. Light didn't need to pursue anything with Ryuzaki – wouldn't get anything but at most a few weeks (probably less) of interesting sex that could easily be found from other sources. Light didn't _need_ to be in any sort of relationship, after all, and whenever he did feel the desire for sex, potential boyfriends were never hard to find. It was just fucking; he was fine letting the memory of last night fade into obscurity.

But he didn't want it to quite yet.

Because the other path was a twisting, unknown trail of possibility and potential and unexplored pleasure and excitement, and why not take it?

It could be like any other relationship of Light's – perhaps a little more interesting than the rest – staving off boredom for a while until the sex gradually lost its appeal and fire, eventually evaporating into inevitable mundaneness – and at that point he and Ryuzaki would split their lives again, having let their chemistry run its course.

He felt sure this uncertain trail would eventually join back up with his usual clearing path anyway – just a minor, interesting detour that promised challenge and sex and an interesting companion, if only for a short while more. He saw no reason to let this potential pass by without taking advantage of it, no reason to ignore the chemistry while it was still there.

Hopefully Ryuzaki felt the same. If not, Light felt sure he could be persuaded – and if he couldn't be persuaded, subtle manipulation wasn't out of the question.

But the teasing hand at his hip told him he had nothing to worry about.

So Light let his arm drop from Ryuzaki's neck and twisted around in Ryuzaki's hold until they were almost nose-to-nose, heads tilted, eyes caught and intentions slowly slipping out. Along the way his sketchbook had been set on the couch to wait a little while longer, his arms now free to slide like snakes along Ryuzaki's frame, one mischievously up his back and one grasping down the side of his denim-covered leg.

He was throwing down a challenge, and if Ryuzaki couldn't pick it up he wasn't worth Light's time anyway. All it would take was one sentence, an admittance that he wanted to see Light again, take the twisting path, and then whatever it was they had found in the each other's eyes and each other's foreign embrace could continue a little while longer.

"You're a childish bastard, Ryuzaki," he said casually, his mouth a breath away from the other's, his body a heartbeat apart. It was a statement of superficial words and masked meaning, hiding what he was truly saying on a level deeper than the veneer of literal speech.

_You get under my skin._

And Ryuzaki's eyes focused – deep and piercing as he instantly caught on to Light's pace.

"That may be so," he said. "But it sounds rather hypocritical coming from you, Light-kun, who is likely just as childish and is an arrogant prick on top of that."

_You get under mine_, his dark eyes replied.

Light slid a thumb up along Ryuzaki's side, his fingers spreading across his back, the white shirt bunching slightly beneath as it clung to his fingers and lifted a teasing inch higher.

"You served me coffee in a teacup to purposely provoke me," Light countered.

_I'll challenge you. I'll addict you._

"I did. Merely because you did the reverse to me, for identical reasons."

_I can overcome you. I can consume you._

A sly, lazily lidded glance. "I really don't like you, you know."

Bloodlessly pale hands spidering up his sides, pulling his body closer.

"I don't like you either, Light-kun."

Two pairs of deadlocked eyes, two tethered wills in a matched battle where words were superfluous, the only substantial exchange held beneath the surface of the scene - a tension kept under lock but slipping out the seams.

_Say it_, a flicker of warm brown eyes demanded, the color of unground coffee beans.

_Say what?_ a gleam of black ice returned, impassable and intense and with just a hint of impish joy.

They stared at each other, neither willing to concede, neither willing to bring the true dialogue, the question, the _which path from here?_ out into the open first; neither willing to capitulate and speak and give in and _it was fun, just_ _say it Ryuzaki, stubborn bastard, you know you want this too._

Ryuzaki's lips parted, inches away from his own. Light could see the beginnings of a word on his tongue, the beginnings of surrender which would declare Light the victor of this particular scrimmage.

_Say it, Ryuzaki. Say you want to see me again._

Or Light would walk out and it would be over, because he sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to say the compromising words which would take them down the twisting, uncertain path – the verbal admittance that they had something he wanted to continue, a spoken _this doesn't have to end quite yet._

But Ryuzaki's mouth was staying silent, his blacker-than-pitch eyes speaking volumes of _I know what you're after, and I won't let you win, I won't say it, _and the teasing intensity of _I can take you on _was beginning to catch Light's breath in his throat and make his blood run as if the devil was after it and pull an unwilling smirk onto his face.

And Light suddenly didn't know if he wanted Ryuzaki to speak and say the words or not anymore, because that would be too easy, too simple and no fun at all, he was realizing, like a bolt of lightning to the spine. In every other relationship he had ever been part of it was the other guy who folded, the other guy who spoke and asked first, from the stuttering _I think I really like you, Yagami-kun_ of his very first boyfriend, who was young and innocent and questioning his sexuality with a _please don't kill me_ thrown in at the end, to the _You broke up with your boyfriend? Let's fuck, babe_ of Mello's classless excuse for a carefree pick-up.

And Light found he didn't quite know what to do with himself in this situation – where someone was willing to play this game of challenges and feints and _your move, Light-kun_ with him, the game of taunting seduction and hidden intentions, refusing to back down or bend to Light's will as they explored the lust of heartless sex.

So he waited, his breath stilled and his adrenaline spiking, for Ryuzaki to further the game.

_Your move, Ryuzaki_.

And Ryuzaki played his next pawn.

Slowly, without removing his eyes from Light's, he slithered a deliberate hand into the back pocket of Light's jeans; Light didn't move, didn't flinch, and the other man delicately withdrew Light's sleek little phone from its hiding place. Then behind Light's head, with Ryuzaki's arms resting on Light's shoulders, two fingers pinched the phone in the air as another bony digit punched in a number to be stored in electronic memory and to be called later, neither man speaking and breaking the eye lock and _losing the game._

Then the phone was slipped back in his pocket with conscientious care and given a gentle, mockingly considerate pat.

And-

_Your move, Light-kun._

And god, Ryuzaki was a sneaky little bastard, pushing the game into Light's court, giving Light his number without words and with the implication that Light would be the one to call, the implication he wanted to see Light again but not the concession of saying the damn words themselves – winning the game (for now) by evading the challenge all together. And Light was going to strangle him and kiss him and grin in delighted anticipation for where this game could go, and he was going to fuck him and overwhelm him and dig into his brain and draw his damn face, because _this was how the game was played_, however inconsequential a game it might be.

And if only for a while, Ryuzaki was going to be a fucking fascinating opponent.

So Light said his, "_Thanks, it was fun_," with a nip of a farewell kiss, and their eyes agreed _but this isn't over yet_.

Then his sketchbook was retrieved and his shoes put on and he was out the door, a smirk on his mouth and a new path at his feet.

_Your move, Light-kun_.

* * *

><p>L had his feet tucked up under himself, his teacup and saucer balanced on his knees and a thoughtful frown on his face when Watari made his returned presence known in the suite.<p>

"Is your guest gone, sir?"

"Mmm…" L replied in what was meant to be affirmation, but really just ended up sounding like the distracted hum it was.

Watari no doubt noticed this.

"You seem unusually distracted, L, especially when one considers the lack of cases you have taken for the past week. Is there something on your mind?" he asked politely but with an underlying fondness as he went about tidying the room, clearing dishes and stray candy wrappers – a fruitless endeavor, in L's opinion, as his three messy successors were to due to arrive soon.

Yes, there was something on L's mind. It was a certain brown-eyed minx of a man – hardly a man, he wasn't even out of his teens yet – who did things with his body and said things with his eyes that spurred L to do stupid, thoughtless things, the sort of things one wouldn't expect from the greatest detective in the world.

Yes, L was aware he had done something very stupid - there was no two ways about it.

And yes, L was aware of the logic behind the concept of cause-and-effect, of action-and-consequence. After all, he had been serving as the consequence to crime for all of his adult life and part of his childhood; he knew when someone did something idiotic it often came back to bite them one way or another.

And L had undoubtedly done something idiotic, as much as it pained him to admit it, even to himself.

L, in a moment of embarrassing inattention, had unconcernedly given his _phone number_ to an eighteen-year-old (almost nineteen, but that was just details).

His _L_ number.

The number for the phone he used as defender of justice, savior of the world – his goddamn _batphone_, for heaven's sake. To a teenager who not only was the son of the chief of the NPA, but had thus far proven very intelligent and resourceful and no doubt capable of piecing together L's identity, were he ever given enough clues.

And L had done it for the sole purpose of having sex together again. L wasn't even sure that was legal, let alone anywhere near intelligent.

It wasn't until a few minutes after the door had shut behind Light, far too late to do anything, that L had realized exactly which number he had so challengingly tapped into Light's contacts list. And it definitely hadn't been the number of the phone he kept for such sundry purposes as this, when he wanted to be Ryuzaki or Hideki Ryuga or anyone that wasn't _L_. It was the number he gave to his successors, to the current head of Interpol, and to men who ran their own countries; it was the number people used to contact _L_.

And he had just casually handed it out to a Japanese college student, like a street-corner proselyter handed out save-the-whales fliers.

He still had no idea what had come over him.

That was a lie. He had a very good idea what had come over him. His childish, competitive nature had come over him, in league with his libido, spurred by the challenge in Light's eyes and his own refusal to give in and say the words they'd both felt hanging over them but had balked at vocalizing.

_You interest me, I want to see you again, I want to play the game with you again_.

Words that would have been easy to say, but L wasn't interested in easy.

From outside eyes, the matter would have seemed silly, immature. And perhaps it was. After all, it sounded just like two school children refusing to tell their crushes they liked the other, giggling and blushing and hiding behind their friends as they peeked glances at each other.

…And that was…an interesting imagery. L had compared himself to a child many times before, but never a giggling and blushing one. Interaction with Light was obviously beginning to affect his brain.

And Light's presence had undoubtedly affected his brain earlier – L felt sure that, had Light not been staring at him with those piercing, daring, unavoidable eyes, he never would have made the cell phone number mix-up in the first place.

It was Light's fault. And the ironic part was that Light had just gained a rather major victory over L, and he had absolutely no idea. In fact, he probably thought _L_ had won that particular encounter, what with the slippery way L had expressed his interest in seeing Light again without actually verbalizing it, successfully putting the play into Light's court by giving _him_ the decision to call (a piece of work L would have been rather proud of, had he not messed it up by giving the wrong number).

And yet, what worried him the most was he couldn't quite manage to regret it.

"I gave Light-kun my number," he said simply, in belated answer to Watari.

He didn't glance up from the hole he was currently burning in the wall, the pad of his thumb caught between his teeth, but he could feel the flicker of grey eyes in his direction, however discreet the elder man may have been about it.

"I take it you enjoyed his company, then?" Watari inquired politely after the barest moment of surprised silence. "Well, this is nothing to fret so much about," he said bracingly, even a little indulgently – a sentiment L hadn't expected from Watari on this particular matter. "It is a common practice among young people who wish to arrange further meetings together to exchange numbers. Surely you know there is nothing wrong with this."

Ah. Watari evidently thought he was going through some sort of social insecurity, like an infatuated teenager, despite the fact that L had just passed by his twenty-fifth birthday several months ago.

"I gave Light-kun my _L_ number," L clarified. "Not the Ryuzaki number."

There was a quiet pause as Watari processed this information and L did his best to separate his thumb from its skin.

"…I see," Watari eventually said, lightly. "That is a slightly different matter. Shall I arrange for a new number to give our contacts, as this one has been compromised?"

L debated. On the one hand, that could be a hassle and, if not handled correctly, could make him look bad in front of the world's leaders – something he generally tried to avoid. On the other hand… L thought of Light, the smirk in his voice and the laugh in his throat, the challenge in his eye and the resolute will in his smile. If, for any reason, L gave Light a reason to suspect his identity, it was possible Light would be capable of using the number to gain information on L. Cell phones, no matter how many encryptions were placed on them by top-notch technological geniuses like Matt, were always capable of being tapped by motivated eavesdroppers.

So, with Light's determined eyes in mind, L said, "Yes, I think we'd better. I'd rather be safe in this situation than regret not taking action. I would also like a slice of cake, please. The chocolate one I saw in the fridge – the Black Forest gateau, I believe."

"Very well, sir. Also, your protégés will be arriving within the next five minutes. They called ahead to…'make sure the piece of ass was gone,' is what Mello said, I believe."

L ignored the decided glint of laughter in Watari's eye and let out a noisy sigh of exasperation. This was not going to be fun. He knew he would be incessantly barraged with insufferable, curious successors for at least the next hour, as always happened in such situations, and there was little he could do about it.

"I see. You had better bring me two slices, then. And you might as well bring one for Mello. Perhaps it will distract him from digging obnoxiously into my business."

"Perhaps, sir," Watari agreed, a smile in his voice but his face carefully neutral as he plucked up L's empty cup and saucer. "Would you like some more tea?"

Light looked at the teacup and instantly thought of Light's face, smirking at him over his mug of tea, hiding a laugh in the rim, his eyes taunting. The image was a challenge, and even though it was merely from L's imagination, he couldn't let it pass by.

"Yes. And I think I would like it served in a mug today, Watari, if you don't mind. And bring the sugar cubes. Please," he added at a significant glance from Watari, who had never abandoned his attempt to pound some manners into L's stubborn skull and was probably one of the only people L actually cared enough for to make an attempt. With most other people, L had no need for manners, abandoning tact in favor of his usual brusque and blunt approach.

_You're just trying to palm off being a manner-less bastard as being honest and genuine. I can tell you're really just a tactless prick that can't be bothered with courtesy or civility. _

L smiled.

No, he didn't regret giving Light his number – he regretted stupidly giving the wrong one (L wasn't _supposed_ to be stupid), but that was being taken care of.

He was beginning to understand why Mello had stuck with Light for over two months, longer than most of the blond's relationships. He doubted his own interest would remain engaged for that long, but he could understand why it had happened. There was something about Light that drew a person in, something intriguing and a little captivating, from his high-handed arrogance to his taunting smirk to his inherent sensuality he couldn't seem to help and didn't seem to mind.

The bottom line was that L was still interested in sleeping with Light, and he was used to getting what he wanted. So, until that interest went away, he intended to sleep with Light and overcome whatever challenges the other threw at him, playing all his fascinating games until it got boring, whether it lasted for two days or two weeks or even two months.

It wouldn't get in the way of his work; he could easily solve most of the cases waiting in his inbox without ever moving away from his computer, and Japan was as good a place as anywhere else in the world to stay. Just until he got Light out of his system.

That was all it was – simply another itch that needed scratching. It just needed a little more scratching than he'd previously assumed.

But for now, he needed to concern himself with how he was going to fob off his inquisitive successors, who would be arriving any minute now. They, particularly Mello, did not yet know the identity of the person L had slept with, and L intended to keep it that way, as he was uncertain as to exactly how Mello would react to finding out L had recently had sex with his ex-boyfriend. Fantastic sex, but that was beside the point.

And- oohhh…

L had forgotten to wipe the security tapes from last night and this morning. That had the potential to be rather problematic.

L had the irrational urge to jump from his chair and throw himself at the mass of computers, which no doubt would have resulted in a lot of ungainly flailing and stumbling and considerable loss of dignity, when the suite door was thrown open and Mello himself bounded inside, an eager grin on his face (which L personally thought made him look about ten years younger, when he was an L-worshipping tyke barely introduced to the concept of leather), followed by a leisurely strolling Matt and an indifferently shuffling Near.

Oh well. L would just have to ensure they didn't get to the tapes before he did.

"L! Did you finally fuck something? I'm fucking sick of these two lowlifes hanging out at my apartment all the time. Well, Matt's okay, but the sheep here drooled all over my couch."

"You know that is untrue, Mello."

"My ass it's untrue! I walked out this morning and you were slobbering all over in your sleep!"

"My mouth was slightly relaxed, as is natural during sleep. There was no saliva whatsoever."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, L! Are you going to tell us anything about who you banged last night? Watari wouldn't say anything, the tight-lipped geezer. He wouldn't even say if it was a guy or a chick."

"As much as I hate to sound in agreement with Mello, L, I must also admit to being a little curious concerning the matter – not about details, you understand. I merely wish to know if you have relieved your distraction. Mello is very noisy when he has sex, and the unappealing people he brings home aren't much better. I was unable to sleep for very long last night. I would like to be able to stay in the hotel tonight."

Near must have really been perturbed; that was the longest uninterrupted statement L had heard him say for at least three months that didn't have to do with a case or a robot.

"What the fuck do you mean, 'unappealing'?"

"I was referring to the man with his front tooth missing and general smell of week-old alcohol."

"I wasn't fucking him! He's the landlord, he was taking a look at my broken air conditioner!"

"I wasn't aware that was what people were calling it these days."

"…That was actually kind of funny. But you're still a jackass."

And Matt just relaxed against the wall, a small smile on his face and a knowing gleam in his eye as he glanced at L.

L sighed and wondered if he ignored the three they would eventually fade away like smoke. Probably not. They were annoyingly persistent, and he doubted they would oblige him by changing their state of matter.

Bother.

He hoped Watari brought that cake in soon.

* * *

><p>The door to a small breakfast café was pushed open and a slightly breathless body slipped in.<p>

Light paused for a minute on the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the change to soft, subdued lighting and his face slipping into a cool, professional mask, making sure his suit had remained unwrinkled.

Damn that Ryuzaki and his distracting ways. It had been later into the morning than Light had thought, and he'd barely had time to change his clothes and make it to the café on time. Light would never do something as undignified as running down a public street, but he had been required to walk at a brisker pace than he usually liked. And typically he wouldn't care if he was late, but this was business, and so Light needed to maintain an air of professionalism and courtesy – and that included being on time.

He'd have to think of a way to get back at Ryuzaki later, the bastard.

Light scanned the tables, only a few patrons scattered throughout the room, quietly chatting. The person he was meeting was probably already here, waiting, but where Light couldn't see yet.

Until-

"Yagami-kun," a pleasant voice to his left said quietly.

Light turned with a slight smile to greet the man at his elbow.

Slender, sensible glasses.

Ink-black hair, a little longer than strictly conventional but tidy and well-groomed despite this (unlike a certain bastard's Light could mention).

A neat charcoal suit, with barely perceptible pinstripes.

Cool black eyes and a warm smile welcoming him.

"Mikami-san," Light returned just as pleasantly. "Have you been waiting?"

"Not even a minute; you're right on time. Shall we sit down?"

Light nodded, and Mikami led the way to a small, secluded table, almost hidden within a private alcove.

As Light slipped onto a bench, he pushed all thoughts of Ryuzaki and cell phone numbers and intense eyes and revenge plots from his mind. There would be time for that later.

"Would you like some coffee, Yagami-kun?"

An image of a teacup clutched beneath a sulky face rose unbidden to his mind, and Light suppressed the urge to grin, as it would be rather out of place.

_Focus, Light. You can think about that bastard later._

"Yes, thank you. Coffee would be wonderful."

For now, he had business to attend to.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Ha! It's Mikami! Mikami has a very special place in my heart, that fucking adorable psycho. Sadly, he's going to be relatively sane in this story. (Probably - I make no promises.)<br>_

_The rest of this note has absolutely nothing to do with the story. (Have you come to expect anything less?) So skip away, kiddies. But before you go- thanks for reading, and a very particular thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter. You guys are fantastic._

_So.  
><em>

_I hate water. I am henceforth boycotting water in all forms until it agrees to stop sneaking into my basement. (Actually, it's not even sneaking – it's crashing the gates and bringing all its drunk relatives.) I've been getting up at 3 a.m. every morning to take my turn of vacuuming and pumping and dumping buckets and buckets of the damn stuff. So I'm boycotting - no drinking, no peeing, no showering, no water-based soups. And no anything else that has to do with water, or maybe just liquid in general, until the rain complies with my terms. Please feel free to join me in this crusade._

_Alright, alright, I'm just kidding about the boycott. I'm just being a whiny bitch. And a little sleep deprived. So I'd appreciate if you guys (you poor compulsive people who had to read this rant just because it was __**there**__) could give me some perspective on this chapter, because I have none. Blame it on the sleep deprivation, people. It's a nice, tidy excuse._

_(In related news, my shop-vac is my new hero.)_


	7. Interrogations and Games

**Chapter Seven**

_Interrogations and Games_

* * *

><p>Cake was a beautiful thing.<p>

L had suspected this before – many times throughout his life, in fact – but this particular morning he found himself appreciating the dessert's finer qualities anew. Not only did it taste good, smell good, look good, and was practically soaked in ten kinds of sugar, but it also had the ability to pull Mello's attention away from L's recent sexual activities like a fish on a line.

"Is that chocolate?"

Or at least when it contained a certain key ingredient.

Mello had been pestering L unflaggingly for information, a stubborn gleam in his eye and a mischievous smile on his face while Matt and Near looked on with amused and indifferent expressions, respectively, when the persistent interrogation was thankfully interrupted by Watari's timely entrance from the kitchen, several slices of cake in hand.

"It is indeed chocolate," Watari answered with his usual infinite calm and a quiet twitch of his moustache. "And before you ask, one of these is indeed for you."

_This _was why Watari was irreplaceable by L's side – not his limitless wealth, not his proficiency with more types of firearms than could be found in an American redneck gun store, not his formidable training in espionage or his shady contacts among the world's more covert intelligence agencies. It was his ability to walk in the room with cake at exactly the right moment.

A grin spread across Mello's face, the kind that could only be put there by the prospect of chocolate or good sex.

"Alright, fucking _excellent_," he declared in approval of the general situation as he jumped up to snag the biggest piece from Watari, apparently channeling the Ninja Turtles in his enthusiasm, though L doubted even Raphael had ever been quite that profane, not even over a slice of Lombardi's best – the word 'fuck 'was generally frowned upon in a comic book aimed at young people. It was unlikely to have made it past the censors.

But amphibian ninjitsu language tangents aside – Mello was distracted, at least for the moment, and L could finally let up on his poor gnawed upon thumb, which had been bearing the brunt of his quiet irritation.

And since Mello's attention had been diverted to something besides whomever L had slept with last night, there was a seventy-five percent chance L would be able to remove the security tapes before it occurred to Mello to check them. Seventy-nine, if Watari brought out another slice of cake for the blond. And while L didn't fear Mello's reaction to finding out Light was the person who had just yesterday been fucked on that sofa Mello was currently lounging on, chomping down on his cake with a single-minded intensity, it certainly made things much smoother in general if he didn't discover it. L was all for avoiding tedious conflict when it could reasonably be done.

Also, now that his successors were present and no longer occupied, at least for now, with sticking their too-intelligent noses into L's business (once the leader had been taken out, the rest of the nosy coalition had pretty much dissolved, Matt settling against a wall to watch Mello with indulgent amusement, Near shuffling over to the coffee table to begin sorting stray candy wrappers – productivity had hit all time lows among them, it seemed), this would be the ideal time to discuss which cases they would be taking on next. Get to work dealing out justice, and all that.

L admitted he had been a little lax in his duty the past week. Alright, a lot lax.

Most of the actual detective work since the Wilson smuggling/murder case had been accomplished by his successors, under his distracted supervision, and since then L had mostly been assigning them boring, routine cases that half the children at Wammy's under the age of ten could have solved. Boredom was running rampant among his minions, as evidenced by the growing stack of bright wrappers in front of Near and the smoking cigarette in between Matt's teeth.

L supposed he hadn't been a very diligent lead detective if his underlings had clearly become resigned to their fate of hanging out in the hotel suite, waiting for L to kick back into his usual crime-solving gear.

But considering there hadn't really been any interesting criminal activities surfacing for a while, he found it very hard to care. And in any case, he felt even he deserved a bit of a holiday every so often. It was only fair, really. Healthy, even. Wasn't Watari always going on about how L needed to take care of his body better? Sex was a bodily need; L was fulfilling it.

It had pulled him away from work for a bit, but L was confident that, while he wasn't quite finished with Light yet, his period of work-inhibiting distraction had successfully run itself out. It was the nature of things.

To prove his own point, L plucked up the stack of cases Watari had rather expressively set beside him as he handed him his cake and began flipping through it, in the unconcerned manner of someone browsing through the paper over morning tea.

There, see? He could work just fine – no distraction problems at all.

But still nothing interesting had surfaced lately, it seemed – criminally, at least. The French had sent him some sort of jewel heist the media was making a big to-do about, which L could tell without even reading all the case notes had been done by the night guard. Painfully obvious, really. The standards of law enforcement were slipping if they needed L for such cases.

Some sort of political scandal was going down in a small South American country L wasn't sure he had ever heard of, involving people L _knew_ he had never heard of. He tossed the file in the garbage, wondering why they thought he'd be interested in investigating where a greasy politician stuck his reproductive organs. Not engaging at all.

Oh, this was mildly interesting. The American FBI had sent him a case about a rogue hacker who had been slipping into their database, apparently changing random words in highly classified files to considerably naughtier ones and sprinkling in a liberal dose of offensive phrases – an odd mixture of extremely juvenile humor and extremely advanced hacking skills L found intriguing. It made for an amusing scenario to imagine: a stern, square-jawed agent sitting down and ripping off his too-dark sunglasses to review a top secret document, only to find the words "I jizzed earlier all over that chair you're sitting in – sorry about that" staring back at him.

It seemed the Americans weren't finding it quite as funny.

L might have considered taking that case – if only because such creative skullduggery deserved recognition – had he not suspected the culprit was currently sitting in the room with him, fiddling with some piece of palm-sized technology he had just pulled from his pocket that was most likely a game of some sort.

Matt always had used rather unique outlets for his boredom. And L supposed that, since he and his recent distraction were the cause of Matt's current boredom, he ought to do something to clear the situation up. It was only reasonable.

"Matt," he said idly, flicking to the next manila file of an unsolved case, "the Americans are getting peeved."

"Are they?" Matt returned, very innocently and not looking up from his game. "More than usual, you mean?"

"Mm," L hummed. "They'd also like to know the meaning of the word 'baps', as in the phrase, 'That suit makes your baps look great, sir.'"

"Odd. I wonder where they picked up that word."

"Baps are tits, L," Mello said through a mouthful of cake, with an assurance usually only found from divine revelation or the bottom of a vodka bottle.

"Yes, it is very odd," L stated pleasantly to Matt, cutting himself a bite of his own cake with his fork and ignoring Mello's helpful intrusion. "And while I believe it is commendable to promote cultural understanding between two countries, I'll have to ask you do it in less legally problematic ways."

Matt's reply was lost as Mello's chocolate-addled brain caught up with the conversation.

"Oh, Matty! Are you hacking the FBI again? You haven't done that since we were – what, twelve? – and the only thing you could think to say was 'You're an arseface!' over and over. At least you've gotten more creative."

L frowned, having formerly been unaware of his third successor's early foray into the world of insulting hacking. He glanced at Matt, who seemed unconcerned by the admission, and decided the past was better left where it was and took another bite of cake.

"You know, L," Mello said casually, licking at chocolate stained teeth and settling comfortably against the sofa's striped pillows, "we've been pretty patient with you the past week or so. All the boring cases, all the days we've come here and had nothing to do, all the times I've graciously allowed these two fuckwads to bunk up at my place, only to find it was pointless and you once again hadn't gotten laid."

L was trying very hard to listen. Really, he was.

"We understand how distracted you get when you haven't fucked for a while," Mello continued offhandedly, ignorant of L's growing distraction. "It's just how you get. This time it was a little longer than usual, but we put up with it."

The only problem was, L had just realized that the sofa Mello was currently reclined against with confident abandon was the same couch on which, only the night before, an entirely different person had been sprawled, lazy assurance in his eyes and smile as he stared up at L, his hands reaching up to pull L down, his legs sliding apart to make room for their bodies to mold together-

"L? Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

The memory of Light vanished like smoke and all that was left was Mello staring at him with brash annoyance.

"Yes, I'm listening Mello. Please continue."

Mello shared a glance with Matt across the room, engaging in a silent communication they had perfected when they were six. After a moment, Matt laughed, took a drag of nicotine then returned to the game in his hands, and Mello grinned proudly as if he'd said something incredibly witty.

L supposed it was possible he had – he had never quite figured out their silent code.

"The thing is," Mello continued as though he hadn't just been involved in telepathic repartee, "you're usually back to normal after you fuck something. And since you're clearly still zoning out, you either didn't actually get any action last night or whoever it was you fucked was just _that_ good. Either way, you've got to start spilling with the details. You owe it to us after the last week."

Matt glanced over briefly from his game in apparent agreement.

L just pulled his legs in closer to his body and began drawing circles on his knee with a long, crooked finger.

"No," he decided primly, not looking up from the patterns he was tracing. "It's none of your business. I admit I have been somewhat distracted, but that time has passed now. We will currently be returning to our usual level of work, so I expect you all to apply your best effort."

His eyes rolled upwards to find Mello grinning at him in frightening determination.

"Right," the blond said, sharing another one of those speaking glances with Matt. "I suppose we'll just have to check the security tapes then. I'd bet you haven't wiped them yet."

Oh bugger.

L was about to speak, using his authority as L to stop Mello from taking a step towards the security computers (not that he expected it to actually work), when another voice beat him to it.

"That won't be of any use, Mello."

L was a little startled at the dry monotone – though of course he didn't show it – having forgotten Near was in the room. The boy was frighteningly easy to overlook, something L had no doubt he purposely cultivated.

…And he was currently seated directly in front of the security computers.

Double bugger.

"Whaddya mean, 'won't be of any use'?" Mello snapped, striding over to hover behind the curly white head.

"I mean," Near answered calmly, "that the all footage from last night and this morning has already been cleared. The tapes start back up about ten minutes before we arrive, and all that is on that section of footage is L sitting as he is now, although without the cake."

"Ah, fuck it," Mello groaned. "Guess he wiped 'em. You're a paranoid bastard, L."

"Justifiably, considering you were about to encroach upon my privacy," L returned unconcernedly, acting like the wiped tapes were not a new revelation to him when really his mind was buzzing in surprise. Had Watari taken care of it? That seemed likely, except for the fact that he would have informed L of it earlier.

L scooped up yet another bite of cake, chewing slowly and savoring the rich taste as he considered the situation.

Perhaps Near had wiped them during the time he had been sitting at the computers unnoticed. He certainly had the time and means, though L could see no clear motivation for him to do so. If anything, it seemed more likely he would find it enjoyable, in his own passive-aggressive way, to observe Mello find out his ex-boyfriend had recently spread his legs for L. He was more likely to sit back and watch matters unfold than to interfere in such a situation.

But for whatever reason, L was glad he didn't have to deal with Mello's dramatic reaction to the revelation.

He shoved another scoop of cake into his mouth, pushed it to the side to talk around it, and decided it was time to return to productivity. "Luckily for you, Mello," he began importantly, "I'm willing to overlook this blatant infringement of my human rights-"

Mello snorted then, no doubt remembering all the times L had, without a care, walked all over a suspect's so-defined 'human rights', but L ignored him and continued right over the top.

"-because we have more important things to discuss at the moment. For instance, our work. Near – have you finished the counterfeiting case I assigned you?"

Near, curled up in the swivel chair in front of the security computers like an overgrown kitten, nodded.

"Very good," L said, glad at least one of his underlings had accomplished something the past week, because it really seemed all they had done was hang around the hotel room and irritate him. "Mello, I will be sending you and Near to France to deal with this." He flung the jewel robbery file at Mello, who caught it deftly without spilling any of the papers, an incredulous expression already beginning to spread across his face. "Watari will book you a flight for tonight, and I expect you to report back every evening. Matt, you will be remaining here-"

"Hold on a fucking minute!"

Ah, and there it was. L had been waiting for that, Mello's angry outburst. He was only surprised it hadn't contained more profanity, and perhaps some threats against his continued existence.

"You can't honestly expect me to work alone with the albino! I'll go out of my bloody mind! Fuck that, L, no way. Besides, I can't leave Japan right now – you know I'm still forming contacts, I can't just up and leave."

L heaved a weary sigh, as Mello crossed his arms like a stubborn child refusing to share his toys. He had been expecting resistance; that didn't make it any more enjoyable to deal with.

"Mello," he said, trying to project all of his authority as L into his voice. "You are both adults. You have been working together for three years-"

"Matt's always with me though!"

"-and while you haven't worked exclusively with Near yet, I believe it is a vital part of your training to learn how to work with someone you don't get along with on a personal level. It will be good for you." Dear lord, he was beginning to sound like Watari. 'It will be good for you' – a favorite catchphrase of the fatherish type figure, and L was slightly horrified to hear it wander out of his own mouth.

"In any case," he continued smoothly, trying to ignore the parental slip, "perhaps this will give you the opportunity to create some different insults. 'Albino' and 'sheep' were rather commendable when you were seven, but I think they have lost any of their original sting. In fact, they've almost become terms of endearment by this point. I was unaware you were harboring a secret crush on your coworker, Mello."

_Fwip_.

A thin, deadly blade embedded itself in the cushion between L's feet, reminding him in a rather blunt manner of the eclectic, unorthodox training his successors had received.

Two spindly fingers tugged the knife out of the firm padding, and L said casually, "Your aim has gotten much better, Mello. A year ago you would have taken out one of my toes. I hope you realize, however, that the repairs for your outburst will be taken out of your pay."

"Yeah, yeah," Mello said, sounding a bit more cheerful than before and just as casual as L. "It was worth it. I've been wanting to do that all week."

L twirled the blade fluidly between his fingers, watching the light catch the cold metal and dance along to the tip. "I had no idea I inspired such violence in you. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

"I would, if I didn't know it would be complete bullshit."

"You will, despite this wounding mistrust in my sincerity, still be going to France."

"Dammit L, aren't you listening? I can't go, unless you want me to waste all the work I've done the past two months with the yakuza. Why don't you send Matt instead? He's the one with nothing to do, remember? 'Baps', and all – ringing any bells?"

L carefully set the knife down on his chair's armrest.

This was actually a reasonable suggestion, if not for two simple facts: it really _would_ be good for Mello to learn how to work with Near, and having Mello out of Japan for a short while would make things much smoother for L's plans concerning a certain recent ex-boyfriend of the blond's. And that was what was really important at the moment.

"It will do no damage for you to spend a week in France," L said calmly, beginning to feel a little like King David from the Bible, sending Uriah off to his death. He doubted, however, that Light would appreciate being compared to Bathsheba – and honestly, it wasn't as if L was trying to kill Mello, or that he had moved in on Light while he was still involved with Mello, so the parallel was not very fitting.

And L would rather avoid divine retribution, if it could at all be helped – or Watari retribution, as was more applicable in this particular example – so he decided to toss the whole analogy out the window. Metaphorically, of course.

"This case hardly seems involved enough to require two people and a week," Near's quiet monotone put in, from where he'd meandered over unnoticed to scan the case file. "There is no need to apportion that amount of time and effort for a case as simple as this."

Mello snatched the file out of pale hands and ran his eyes over it quickly.

"Much as I hate to admit this, Near is right, for once. This case is a fucking cinch, L."

One day, L would train his successors so they obeyed his word without question. (He doubted David had to deal with this amount of insubordination.) Until that day, he would have to make do with heavy-handed threats and forced authority.

"And yet, you will do it anyway," he said decisively. "Otherwise you will find yourself without any cases at all, and without any opportunity to prove yourself worthy of inheriting the title of L."

"Dude, you realize that threat lost any real power over them after about the five-hundredth time they heard it, right?"

Apparently, since Matt had no interest in taking over L's role, he thought that gave him the right to undermine L's authority.

"Watari!" L shouted, giving up all attempts at maintaining dignity and maturity. "Matt is smoking in the building!"

"Alright, alright, I get it, I get it," Matt said, hastily snuffing out his smoke and tucking it away for later. "You're L, all must obey your whims. Tough luck, Mels – I'll see ya in week."

"Matt," Mello groaned. "Don't abandon me!"

Matt flashed him a grin almost as bright as the game in his hand. "It'll be good for you," he said, echoing L's earlier assurance. "Besides, you're going to France – the land of world class wine and prostitutes. You'll feel right at home."

"Ah, whatever – enough with the whore jokes already. I got plenty of that from Light. You know he asked me once if I was a prostitute? Little bastard was completely serious, too." Despite Mello's harsh words, his tone was easy and relaxed and maybe the smallest bit fond, showing no bitterness towards his recent ex. L supposed this was a good thing, generally speaking.

Matt somehow managed to chuckle and roll his eyes while not taking them from his game, but L was more focused on sliding his own eyes over to Near, to see if he betrayed any sign of knowing who had been in L's bed (and on the sofa, in his shower, against the walls, on the table) last night.

Nothing.

But then, that was to be expected. Near seemed to be under the impression there was a constant game of poker going on everywhere and manipulated his expression accordingly – an attitude of which L generally approved, when not used against him.

At that moment, Watari appeared from the kitchen, looking dignified despite the pink apron he had tied around his waist.

"You called, sir?" he asked. Oh, that was right - L had called.

"Ah, yes. The problem has been resolved, however, so I all I need is for you to book two seats on the next flight to France. Directly next to each other, if it can be managed."

"L," Mello growled warningly, while Matt gave a quick bark of laughter.

"Very well," Watari agreed with a nod, ignoring the doggish sounds coming from two of his charges. "And which case will you be working on, sir?"

L drew a case file from the stack and dangled it from two fingers.

"This one. And Matt will be assisting me with any technical matters, as punishment for his recent torment of the hard-working people of the FBI."

Mello practiced his file-snatching skills once again by grabbing the folder out of L's pinched grasp.

"What?" he yelled in disbelief, as his eyes tossed over the contents. "Why do you get the fun cases? A serial killer who murders musicians with their instruments? And it's in Japan, just a little south of here? No fucking fair, L!"

L allowed a small grin to pull up his lips as he stared up at the increasingly angry blond standing above him.

"You forget, Mello. I am L. And while I have agreed to take you three on and train you in the art of detective investigation, you are still the young Padawan learners, and I am the Jedi master – Yoda, if you will. I am in charge of deciding which cases I solve, and which cases you solve."

_And deciding which people I sleep with_, he added mentally for his own benefit.

Mello exchanged one of _those_ glances with Matt across the room.

"…Did L just make a Star Wars reference?"

"I believe he did, Mels. A pretty blatant one. He even called himself Yoda."

"Does he realize he's just setting himself up for ridicule?"

"You know, I don't think he'd consider it an insult to be compared to a green little creature that talks strangely and sits like a frog."

"All he's missing is the coloring."

"And the short size."

"And the badass Jedi skills."

"Well yes, there is that."

L stared down at his empty plate of vanished cake, wishing it still held something, if only so he could fling a forkful at his abusive successors. Well no – that would be a waste of perfectly good cake.

He wished it would have another slice of cake and a bit of spinach on the side – far enough away that there was no danger of it contaminating his food. Or maybe some cooked cabbage; that would make a satisfying splat as it latched on to their faces.

He could always ask Watari to give him some; he wondered if he'd even be the slightest bit fazed by L _asking_ for vegetables. Probably not.

L tuned out his successors, two of which were still making unflattering comparisons between him and a certain syntax-challenged Jedi, the other watching the exchange with unreadable eyes. He pulled his phone from his pocket (his once L phone, now exclusively Light phone) and studied it carefully, as though it could answer the question currently on his mind: if and when Light would call.

But L really shouldn't be spending his time in this distracted manner (again). A new case awaited him, and it was time to return to work.

* * *

><p>Two young men relaxed in a quiet booth, knife-sharp suits and elegant lines, the image of Japanese business pride – radiating proficiency, assurance, and charisma as they exchanged soft words over bitter coffee, the generation's potential resting easily on their shoulders.<p>

Young Tokyo – Japan's elite.

And Light was in his element, in a game of smooth charm and muted subtlety and veiled words – like a blade wrapped in silk – and he could feel the beginning trills of quiet anticipation stirring in his blood.

"Any word from Germany?"

The other man shook his head, taking a slow sip of his own steaming drink.

"Not yet. Shouldn't be long, though. I'd guess it will probably hit the news within days."

This was just the preliminaries, the first bold step into a new game, but already Light could tell it was going to be exhilarating.

"Good. And you covered your tracks? You'll be useless to me if your credibility is brought into question."

"It's been taken care of, Yagami-kun. No one will see any connections but the ones you want them to."

Mikami had been an unexpected find. Efficient, obedient, diligent – zealous, even. It would be interesting to see what happened to his calm assurance as the game gradually progressed, the pressure building stronger. Would he snap, or would he adapt? Either way, Light had his own bases covered.

"Have the funds been transferred without problem?"

A sharp nod answered him. "There's nothing to worry about. Like I said, it's all been taken care of."

Coffee swirled around the edges of the cup, and Light watched its graceful dance.

"Perhaps. Unless there's a hitch with the piece itself."

"That's your department."

Light nodded, not taking his attention from his gently churning drink as he rocked the cup around, clasped in supple fingers.

"Yes. That's my department."

Light's voice was cool and confident, and Mikami's mouth quirked into a reassuring smile across the smooth table.

"You should be proud, you know. The painting was a masterpiece."

And Light's favorite smirk made its first appearance of the meeting, curling his lips into a mix of anticipation and satisfaction and cunning revealed – the smile of a plan falling into place. His eyes, steady and assured, left his coffee to meet the other man's.

"Not quite a masterpiece, Mikami-san. Almost – but not quite."

And Mikami's own grin jumped to his lips in answer.

"No. Not quite."

* * *

><p>"L, can I talk to you?"<p>

L glanced up from his computer, and to his mild surprise he noticed night had already long since fallen.

Near and Mello were currently on their way to France, with varying degrees of hostility and ill-intent towards L's life, and at the moment it was only L and Matt in the dimly-lit room hovering above the tiny dotted lights of the city below – Watari having undoubtedly retreated to bed hours ago, unlike the rest of the city, which seemed to be just awakening and heading out to explore what the city became under bright neon and flashing signs.

"I suppose, judging from your serious demeanor," L answered, removing his pecking fingers from his keyboard in an attempt at civility, "that the obvious and admittedly immature response of, 'You already are,' would be unappreciated at the moment. But yes, Matt, you may talk to me. If you mean, 'May I continue speaking with you, about a subject which you will likely find distasteful,' then again, yes – though I may refuse to answer any and all of your questions, and I warn you I might chose to leave the conversation if I become bored. With that in mind, please continue."

He settled back into his chair in a comfortable crouch and peered up at Matt expectantly.

"I'll keep it simple then," Matt said bluntly. "I know you fucked Light."

Ahhh… L hadn't been expecting that. However, it was too early to tell if this was a positive or negative development, so he reserved further reaction until he had a better understanding of the situation.

"I see. So you were the one who wiped the tapes."

Matt nodded. "You probably shoulda realized this was a possibility, but when I set up the cameras in here I set the feed to stream to my laptop as well. Just a little extra security."

"How very efficient of you. I suppose, when I did not call last night to inform you and Near that the hotel was available for sleeping, you assumed I had invited someone over, then checked your handy little security feed to verify this assumption?"

Another nod, shameless and relaxed. L really _should_ have anticipated this. Even though Matt had removed himself from the running of becoming L, it didn't mean he should be overlooked or forgotten. After all, he was a contender for the position, should he ever want it. He was in the same bracket as Near and Mello, in terms of capability (and nosiness), and setting up an extra feed would be a natural response.

"Yep," Matt said with a flash of a smirk that, in terms of sneaky mischievousness, reminded L rather suddenly of one he had seen briefly last night on Light's lips during the heat of one of their games, though Light's was much more self-assured and radiated the sort of charm that made people willing to toss each other - and themselves - off cliffs if they thought it would please him. "You should be glad, too. I realized this morning you hadn't cleared the footage yet, so I decided to be a pal and wipe it for you. You oughta give me a raise or something."

"I assume it did not occur to you respect my privacy and not view the tapes." L's voice was dry, his eyes wiped blank as he regarded his third underling.

"L. Look at what we do for a living. We fuck privacy in the ass then spit on its pussy on a daily basis."

L heaved a sigh and looked around for some cake, though there was none to be found in the immediate vicinity. "I thought not. Though I find it interesting you have assigned the concept of privacy a female orientation. How much did you watch?"

"Just long enough to know not to come back last night. Nothing dirty. Who do you think I am, Mello?"

L shrugged as single shoulder, up then down in a silent show of his own indifference. "Like you said – we are not accustomed to valuing others' privacy. Did you delete the tapes or simply remove them from obvious sight?" Despite his projected apathy, L would admit to a little private anxiety. He did not feel entirely comfortable with the knowledge that someone else might have footage of him, even someone as laid-back as Matt.

Especially someone as creative and capable as Matt was, who had a streak of Mello-nurtured mischief.

"Deleted, you paranoid ass. You can check my computers if you want – all of them. I didn't keep them for my own nefarious purposes."

"Unnecessary. For one, I have no doubt that if you truly wanted to hide something electronically from me, you would be able to do so. For another, I see no motivation for you to use such videos against me and no possible gain for you even if you did. You would not be believed in your claims of my identity. Now, did you have a purpose in such a direct declaration of your knowledge in my business, or was that all?"

Matt settled onto the sofa across from L's chair and looked him dead in the eye.

"I want to know what the hell you think you're doing."

"Ah, Nathan the prophet," L muttered, bracing himself for reprimand and parables of greedy sheep-snatching – or in this case, Light-snatching.

"What?"

"Nothing," L waved the returned analogy away with a wave of a chalky-white hand. "Continue with your scolding. I will try to listen, though I really feel it is uncalled for. I have done nothing wrong."

"I'm not saying you did anything wrong, I'm not saying you didn't," Matt said in a sort of verbal eye-roll, leaning back against the pillows. "I'm just wondering what was going on in that messy head of yours. Did you even think this one through?"

L paused, seriously considering. It didn't take long.

"Yes, I thought it through very thoroughly," he said confidently. "I met Light, wanted to sleep with him, and did. There was no need for any further deliberation on the matter."

Matt sighed heavily, as though L were purposely acting like a difficult child. L did not appreciate this, considering it was coming from someone several years his junior and currently in his employ.

"Listen, L," Matt was saying, "you have the right to sleep with whoever the hell you want." Good, at least they agreed on that point. "But if you're going to sleep with Mello's boyfriend two days after he broke up with him, you bloody well better make sure Mello doesn't find out. That's incredibly insensitive – especially if Mello had found out by watching a tape of you fucking Light into the coffee table."

"I thought you didn't watch anything 'dirty', as you phrased it," L said quietly, not actually very concerned. Modesty was a concept he had never been overly bothered by.

"That was an accident, and trust me, I didn't want to see it. Your scrawny arse was a sight I could have gladly gone without."

"I would dispute your uncomplimentary – and false – word choice, but I find I do not care enough to make the effort." L fished into his pocket and withdrew a small hard candy, unwrapping it with a quick tug of his teeth and popping the smooth treat into his mouth. "Tell me" he said, his words a little distorted as they wrapped around the butterscotch. "I was under the impression Mello was not particularly attached to Light, save for as a convenient outlet for sex, and that it was by his own actions that the relationship was terminated. And while his initial reaction to the revelation would likely be unpleasant, I had not believed it would make a considerable difference to him if I were sleeping with Light."

Matt, probably motivated by L's own oral occupation, withdrew his half-disintegrated cigarette from earlier and lit it up with a flick of a lighter he always kept on hand.

L frowned. Really – out of all the Wammy addictions, Matt's appeared to be the least healthy in an immediate sense. But L had no intention of interfering. Especially considering the levels of sugar he consumed daily, he didn't really feel he had room to speak. If Matt decided he wanted his toxins in his lungs rather than his stomach, that was his choice.

"Mello fucked him for two months – exclusively," Matt said casually, but L was intrigued by a slight twitch in his thumb, so small he very well could have imagined it. "Do you realize how unusual that is for him to actually make the effort to be faithful to one person for that long? Yeah, he cheated and they broke up, but it wasn't like he wanted it to happen. I'm not saying he was in love or anything – because he definitely wasn't – or that he's at all broken up about ending things with Light. It really was a casual relationship, and it wasn't a big deal for him to see it end." Matt spoke smoothly and easily, as though discussing the mildly interesting way his cigarette smoke curled towards the ceiling, with no sign of outward distress.

"I'm just saying that…well, he liked Light," he continued with a shrug. "As a person, not just something to fuck. Enough to limit himself to one guy for two months, and I think that's gotta be the longest exclusive relationship he's ever had. You've never been in a relationship L, not even a casual one, so it's difficult for you to understand. You've never even fucked the same person for more than, what – a week, with that chick in Vienna? And that was just because she could make a pretty good angel's food cake."

L would probably have classified it as 'excellent', not just 'pretty good', and he didn't at all enjoy being told he couldn't understand something, but he nodded anyway, recognizing it was important for Matt to get whatever was swirling around his mind all out in one go.

"Mello and Light were just about sex, yeah," Matt was continuing, nothing but relaxed calm in his voice, "but you have to realize that when you fuck someone for that length of time, emotions are going to get involved. Especially for someone like Mello."

How interesting. L was sure of it now – every time Matt said Mello's name, his thumb twitched. It was possibly a reflex of years spent gaming, a reaction to stress and a conditioned response to an impulse to act, but it raised the question of why Matt would react in such a way to his friend's name.

Was there something of a romantic sort going on between Matt and Mello?

L had never considered it before, having never seen anything to make him believe the two saw each other as anything but brothers, comrades in arms and mischief. Perhaps his former reasoning was due for reevaluation.

"It's not like he's going to be jealous," Matt went on, tapping a sprinkle of ash onto a waiting tray on the coffee table between them. "But it's an adjustment, you know? Up until a coupla days ago, he was the one in bed with Light and had been for the past two months. It'd be a little weird for him to think of his ex-boyfriend sleeping with his boss, no matter how he felt about the ex-boyfriend. You understand? I'm not saying you shouldn't fuck Light – I'm just saying it could be a lot messier than you're probably expecting if Mello finds out. Just, be careful."

Matt crossed one leg casually over the other, apparently having said his piece and content to leave it at that. Unfortunately for him, L wasn't quite finished.

"Are you interested romantically in Mello?" he asked in his usual straightforward manner, seeing no reason to dance around the topic like a couple of teenage girls.

And Matt's mouth slipped open, his cigarette almost falling out, his legs uncrossing quickly as his body straightened up.

"Fucking hell, man – did you even listen to what I was saying?"

Oh, this was very interesting. Matt's thumb had gone past twitching and was now tapping against his leg, and the vehemence of his outburst was more telling than any denial he could have spoken. Matt was hardly ever demonstrative – not at all like Mello, who could shoot off like a rocket at the drop of a well-worded insult. Matt was calm, laid-back, hardly ever ruffled, and if he was upset it meant there was a nerve hiding somewhere beneath all this talk of being careful with Mello's feelings.

Matt seemed to realize he had reacted too severely, and forcefully made himself relax back against the sofa in apparent calm.

"I've been listening," L stated slowly. "And I would like to point out that I did send Mello out of the country for the week. By the time he returns this will likely all be resolved, and there should be no difficulty. I admit I forgot to wipe the tapes in time, but it was not intentionally done."

And Matt smiled easily, all traces of his minor eruption vanished from his body.

"Yeah, I realize that. So you're gonna sleep with this Light guy again? That's unusual for you. He musta been pretty good then, huh?"

L just nodded, his mind still whirling over the possibility of Matt having feelings for Mello.

"Right," Matt took a long drag of smoke. "Didn't mean to come off with a lecture or anything. Have fun with Light, I guess – and I'll be camping out at Mello's place while he's in France, so you can have this place to yourself. Just do whatever you need to get this out of your system, preferably before he gets back."

L nodded again, deciding it was better not to take offense by Matt's unusual attempt to dictate his life. "I will be aware of Mello's feelings, and I will be careful not to injure them. Though I don't precisely agree with you that it would be particularly difficult for either of the two to meet again. "

"I don't know this Light guy, so I can't say what's going through his head – and even with Mello it's hard to know how he'd react. He might just laugh and think it's funny. But still – it's pretty shitty to rub it in his face like that, which woulda happened if I hadn't wiped the tapes."

L wanted to protest that he had intended to do nothing of the sort, but Matt gave another careless shrug and continued.

"Anyway, I was just asking what you were thinking. It's probably not gonna be a big deal either way. And about Mello, I don't have any 'romantic interest' in him. I care about him, 'cause we've been through a lot together, but I don't want to fuck him. Okay?"

Matt was looking directly at L's…nose. L nodded, waiting to see if Matt would go on, as he seemed to be in a mood where words came out without quite the same care he usually gave – another sign of some sort of turmoil, even minor turmoil, going on beneath this all.

"I mean, not that he's not hot or anything – because he is, you know – but I'm just not interested. Besides, even if I was interested – and I'm not – it would be stupid to risk our relationship. So yeah, I'm not interested." He finished the declaration firmly, now looking straight into L's eyes, as though realizing he had been rambling unconvincingly and trying to repair the situation.

But it was too late. L wasn't the greatest detective in the world for nothing, and it wasn't an easy task to lie to him, even for someone as skilled at controlling his emotions as Matt – and even if the person was lying to the himself at the moment, like Matt appeared to be.

"Very well," L said simply. "I will give you the privacy you have denied me and not press the matter. As long as it does not interfere with your work, it does not concern me. I trust you will be careful with Mello's feelings."

Matt just grunted noncommittally, clamming up in an effort to fix any damage he may have done, and took a long pull from his smoke, his eyes drifting to the window in a silent move to end the conversation.

L turned back to his laptop, giving himself a mental pat on the back.

That had been a decent game. It had started with him being lectured, yet in the end he had been the one extending a stern warning. Not a bad play, in his opinion.

Matt was a respectable opponent (not that L truly saw him as an _opponent_), with a fair mastery of his expressions and emotions that was often overlooked in favor of Mello's and Near's more blatant intellect – but this minor engagement of words and warnings and twisted interrogation had only reminded L of how fun Light had been to play with.

Matt could generally handle himself pretty well in a game with L (and L admitted he treated most of his interactions with others as a game), and it was at least mildly interesting to play with him. He could occasionally slip under the radar and bop L on the nose.

But Light hadn't just known how to handle himself – he had met L at every point, matching him and challenging him and ensnaring his attention.

But in all honesty, L didn't have time to continue along that train of thought. Light would either call or he wouldn't, but either way L had a case to focus on.

Crime had waited long enough, and, as he had reminded himself several times throughout the day, he had a job to do.

* * *

><p><em>Two days later<em>

Light strode confidently through the doors of the police station, on his way to do a sketch for a witness. A routine job, one he could probably do with his eyes closed.

As he passed the receptionist's desk, empty at the moment, he noticed an unread newspaper sticking off the edge. He glanced at his watch – still a few minutes until he had to be in the interrogation room.

He slid the newspaper carefully out from under the stack of papers strewn on top of it and quickly scanned the headlines, his back to the security cameras.

There was very little of interest – an apartment fire in a precinct north of here, a well-loved politician retiring, a new bakery opening.

He flipped to the international section.

A short article about a stolen diamond from a French museum, currently under investigation.

A little insert about political unrest in a small African country.

Heavy flooding in eastern China.

But there, at the bottom, an affronted headline declared:

_**Painting forgery brought to light? Experts claim a fake!**_

An ironic grin briefly worked itself onto Light's lips, quickly washed away.

He folded the paper up and slipped it back on the desk, continuing his stroll down the wide hallway, his footsteps crisp and controlled.

It was a small piece of news, unimportant compared to more urgent current events, and one that would likely go overlooked by many. Most of the world wouldn't care, or even notice.

Not yet, at least.

Light nodded to a harried secretary has she rushed past, laughing inside as she blushed and nodded back, almost tripping as she tried to keep walking and greet him at the same time.

The game was beginning, the pawns just barely beginning to slide the first couple of squares forward. It would be a slow game, requiring patience as it built over time, but Light's blood was already beginning to thrum with anticipation.

For better or for worse, it was starting.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Sorry for the wait – real life and I have been spending quite a bit of time together lately, mostly just work. <em>_A good portion of this was written on my big pad of legal paper while I waited in the hospital as my sister got an endoscopy (I was her designated driver and caretaker - silly decision on her part). Doctors were bustling around busily, and I sat there pretending to be writing something important when I was really just writing gay fiction. _

_And check out this chapter, guys! Biblical references, Star Wars, and Ninja Turtles. It does not get better than this. And yes, I absolutely implied up there in the horrible David analogy that Watari is God. He's too awesome not to be. Fuck Kira – Watari is the god of the new world! …But what would that make L? Jesus? But he's David… Alright, I'm stopping before I get struck down, either by God, Kira, or by you guys for having to put up with my inane analogies. Let me just apologize to the universe; hopefully that will cover me._

_With that said, I am now going to pull another Houdini and disappear. Ha!_

_No, really – I'll be on something of a forced holiday for a bit. _…_And that just makes it sound like I'm being carted off to a loony bin, which I may deserve but isn't actually what's happening. It's just one of those obligatory family things where they drag everyone back from the four corners of the earth and make us pretend to get along for a week. __Which is really all it will be – a week. I don't know how much time or internet access I'll have, so updates will be on hold until I get back. Who knows though, I may surprise you._

_I wish I had a respectable reason for absence that made me seem busy and important, but in reality I'm just going to be sitting on a beach (can you hear the smugness in my voice?) while I play with my little niece, who likes me because she's too young to know better, and talk to my sister, who is old enough to know better by this point but was caught in my snares while we were both foolish, young children._

_Oh, and thanks to all you lovely people who were concerned over my flooding basement saga. We've got it all sorted now (I hope) – thank you! The boycott has been lifted, so you all may begin showering again. Ha ha… okay, someone shoot me. I am so unfunny today – more than usual, I mean. Bam, in the face. Save God the trouble._

_Very sorry, everyone. Thanks for reading!_


	8. Phone Calls and Phonies

**Chapter Eight**

_Phone Calls and Phonies_

* * *

><p>Sunday, 3:00 pm, France time<p>

"_I can't stand him, Matt! I can't fucking stand him! I swear to you, someday I'm just gonna lose it and shoot his stupid, smug face clean off. He's always smirking at me, laughing at how I'm never gonna beat him – I fucking hate it!"_

"_Whoa, hold up a minute, Mels, you lost me. I thought we were talking about Near. Who can't you stand?"_

"_We are talking about Near, dicktard! Who the fuck did you think I was talking about?"_

"_Near smirks at you? As in, moving his mouth in an actual expression? C'mon, man, I've never seen the guy sneeze, let alone smirk – are you sure it's not in your head?"_

"_I'm serious, Matt! He's driving me nuts. I don't know what the fuck L was thinking when he sent us on this assignment. Probably sniffing frosting again or something."_

"_Or something like that. Anyway, it can't be that bad. It's only the second day, right? How's the case going?"_

"_Alright, I guess, considering I'm going out of my freaking skull from boredom. We've been watching the security vids of a few days before the rock was lifted, and that's it. All fucking day, man. And I mean, c'mon – we both know it was the night guard that swiped it, but fucking Near's all insisting we 'get more information before we proceed with anything drastic,' and all his other bullshit about not jumping the gun, and- hey! Are you laughing? Stupid fucknut, it's not funny!"_

"_Heh, it's actually pretty damn funny. You sounded just like him, man. And I know Near annoys you, but he's got a point. You tend to jump the gun, a lot. You're probably the most impetuous person I know. And Near's the exact opposite extreme."_

"'_Impetuous,' huh? Heh. Light called me that once. Was going on about something about my nose – I dunno, his usual faces shit. I swear he had a face fetish or something. Ha, there was actually this one time when-"_

"_Mello, dude. I know we're tight and all, but I do not want to hear about what you got up to with your boyfriend. That's just too much information."_

"_Heh, sorry. I guess you don't really want to hear about how we-"_

"_Mello."_

"_I know, I know – I'm joking."_

"_Che. Horny git."_

"_You doubted it? Anyway, I gotta get going soon so we can report back to L. Man, I feel like a little kid with a curfew or something."_

"_Mm. Hey, Mels – do you uh, miss him?"_

"_Who, L?"_

"_No, you berk. Light."_

"_Heh, you sure there's enough estrogen between the two of us for this sort of conversation?"_

"_You're the one with the tight pants and the feminine fringe, bud."_

"_Hurr, very funny, asswipe. But nah, I'm fine. Not a big deal, ya know? It was just fucking around."_

"_Two months of fucking around."_

"_Jesus, Matt, who chopped off your dick today? I'm not a fucking girl. He was hot and we got along alright, and the sex was amazing, free, and with no worries of him getting clingy – definitely worth sticking around for two months. No biggie, okay? I was getting ready to move on anyway – though I admit, if I'd known that time on his kitchen counter was going to be the last real fuck I'd've done him a bit harder. Or was the last time the one on the bed? When he-"_

"_Alright, I get it – you're a cool bastard who fucks without emotions. I was just asking."_

"'_Preciate it, Matty, but I'm really fine. And it's a fucking good thing I'm single now – what is it about the French language that makes people so damn horny?"_

"_I think it's like chocolate – a natural aphrodisiac. And have you considered that might be why you're so addicted to the stuff? You're a randy bastard, it makes people want to get it on – a match made in heaven."_

"_Come off it, man. It's chocolate. It doesn't need a reason for being fucking amazing – it just is."_

"_You realize the whole chocolate obsession doesn't help your dubious masculinity one bit?"_

"_Is it 'Pick on Mello' week or something? Honestly, you're lucky you're in another country right now, otherwise my Glock would be getting intimately acquainted with your ass right now."_

"_Hm, kinky."_

"_Not so kinky once I pull the trigger. Anyway, gotta go. Just stepped out for a bite to eat, but the fucktard is still going at the videos, and if he sees something important while I'm gone he'll never let me forget. Smug bastard."_

"…_Right. See ya, Mels. Don't kill Near."_

"_See ya. And no promises."_

_Click._

* * *

><p>Monday, 8:00 pm, France time<p>

_**Ring…ring…ring.**_

"…_Mello?"_

"_Hah! Do you realize what you just did? You said 'Mello,' like my name, but you were answering the phone, so it sounded like 'hello.' That's fucking awesome! Why haven't we noticed that before?"_

"_Mello, do you realize it's…three in the morning in Japan?"_

"_Hey, c'mon, it's not that big a deal. I just got off the phone with L, and he was fine with it."_

"_Dude, it's L. That's like saying it's normal to chomp down on bat heads 'cause you saw Ozzy do it."_

"_You know, you make really weird comparisons at three in the morning."_

"_What do you want, Mello?"_

"_Oh, right. Anyway, do you remember Mrs. Walbruck?"_

"_You mean that nasty old lady who owned the little grocery we used to swipe toothbrushes from when we were kids, because they were on the aisle closest to the door and we were too big of pussies to do anything else?"_

"_I thought we went for some tins of dog food once."_

"_You chickened out in the middle and left me with trousers full of Iams. Right as Walbruck was coming around the corner. Roger made me eat dog food for breakfast for a week as punishment."_

"_Oh yeah, I'd forgotten that! Hah! Oh, do you remember the time we followed her back to her dingy apartment to leave dirty toothbrushes on her front step, and her evil cat jumped on your head? …You know, we weren't very creative kids."_

"_Mello, did you just call to reminisce about our early Wammy days, or was there an actual point to all of this?"_

"_Uhh…oh yeah! Walbruck. So I was trailing our suspect today, right? And we're walking through this open-air market place, right? So I slip around a corner, pretending to be looking at zucchini or some shit, and guess who plows into me!"_

"_Walbruck?"_

"_Walbruck! And she fucking recognized me! And you know the first thing she says to me? She says, 'You need a haircut, young man. You still look like a girl.' Can you fucking believe that?"_

"_Ugh…that was really creepy. You sounded exactly like her. I think some suppressed childhood memories are surfacing."_

"_And you didn't even see her! I'm telling you, I almost shit myself from shock! She smelled exactly the same, too. Like old rose soap and cigarette smoke and cat hair – remember?"_

"…_I'm going back to bed now, Mello. Goodnight."_

"_Ooh, and remember how she used to-"_

_Click._

* * *

><p>Tuesday, 9:00 am, France time<p>

"_Hey Matt, wanna hear something funny?"_

"_Mello, are you even doing any work over there?"_

"_Che, of course. Otherwise this guy wouldn't get caught until August, at the rate Near works. Fucking tortoise. Anyway, wanna hear something funny?"_

"_Shoot."_

"_Right, so I got this fucking hilarious phone call from the museum executive director today, and the guy was practically bawling, babbling on about ancient curses and freak fires and bogus paintings and a bunch of other shit I could barely understand because his accent was thicker than Near's skull. Apparently, the ice that was stolen had a curse or something placed on it by some batshit crazy voodoo bitch centuries ago, and now the director thinks all the bad luck is finally catching up with them."_

"_Bad luck, as in the diamond was stolen?"_

"_Not only that, but there was also some sort of accidental fire in the contemporary sculptures wing, and just today they found out three of their more popular paintings are forgeries. Crazy, huh?"_

"_Three?"_

"_Yeah, and get this – they were all done by the same guy, who just got caught a few days ago. You hear about that nutsy Scholz guy – that crazy art collector, who's got as much moneys as like, L – and how he threw a huge bitch fit because some painting he bought was fake? So, they tracked down the guy who apparently sold it to him, and turns out he's been doing that sort of thing for a coupla decades. So now the cops are tracking down all the forged paintings he's sold as real shit, and guess where three of his phonies were being shown? On the floor right below the lifted diamond! Isn't that just fucking hilarious?"_

"_Heh, that is kinda funny. Hey Mello, don't get yourself cursed."_

"_Eh, don't even joke about that- oh, gotta go. The suspect just came out of his apartment. This is such a fucking waste of time. Anyway, see ya later."_

_Click._

* * *

><p>Wednesday, 6:00 pm, Japan time<p>

"_Are you alone and near a television?"_

"_Mikami? Uh, yes to both."_

"_Turn to channel seventy-two."_

**_Click._**

"_**The art world has been reeling recently in the wake of a flood of uncovered forgeries, painted by a man by the name of Marshall Phillips. It began when Aldric Scholz, German billionaire philanthropist and art collector, noticed something not quite right about a painting he'd purchased recently, supposedly done by the impressionist founder Claude Monet, and discovered the painting to be a fake. The matter was then turned over to the police, who were able to trace the forgery back to Phillips. Further investigation revealed not only a bank account under an assumed name which had recently had an unusually large deposit made to it, belonging to a man matching Phillips' description, but also evidence of multiple forgeries done by Phillips in the past.**_

"_**Phillips has confessed to five separate forgeries, each sold for over fifteen thousand US dollars, three of which were being displayed in the Mus**__**ée Fontaine in northern France. Unexpectedly, Phillips also insists that he never painted the Monet that started the investigation. He claims he had nothing to do with it and was in fact framed, though he admits to painting the other five forgeries. Authorities are currently looking closer into the affair.**_

"_**In related news, the Eastern Star Diamond recently stolen from the **__**Mus**__**ée Fontaine has reportedly yet to be recovered-"**_

_**Click.**_

"_Is there any danger of the paper trail leading to Phillips being linked to us?"_

"_No, Yagami-kun."_

"_Good. Even if the Monet charge doesn't stick, he's already confessed to the five he painted. Very good – I'll contact you within three weeks with the details for the next target. Goodbye, Mikami."_

"_Until then."_

_Click._

* * *

><p>It had been five days with no contact from Light.<p>

Five days with no thigh-buzzing call from the slim black phone in his pocket (the little silver one nestled next to it was his new L phone, which had been buzzing a little too much from Mello calling him to complain about Near and France and just white things in general), and five days with no crisp knock on the hotel suite door from a smirking artist.

On the second day, L had been consumed with his current case – the one concerning the musician serial murders, which was turning out to be more absorbing than he'd expected – and had hardly given the sultry-eyed teen a thought. On the third day, the case had hit a slow point in the investigation, and L's brain had been at liberty to wander and wonder and remember, in between bouts of productivity when the case snared his attention again. By the fourth day, L had become quite discouraged, and he had begun think he had perhaps underestimated the strength of Light's pride and overestimated his interest in seeing L again, and that he wouldn't be hearing from the Japanese teen again.

Now, on the fifth day, L had slipped into a sort of sullen slump he wouldn't admit to but was evident in the stack of empty cake plates at his elbow, as he plowed through pages and pages of boring information about the musician victims, searching for connections among their pasts beyond their varying degrees of proficiency with a musical instrument.

Simply put, the entire situation was a hit to his ego. And it was one he had never experienced before, a flavor of rejection he had never had the need to taste.

And that made him tetchy. Yes, and a little sulky.

And his mood was certainly not made any better by the knowledge that he even cared at all about whether Light contacted him again.

L was not accustomed to caring if someone called him back, unrelated to his work (and as L, there was never a need to worry about that). He was not accustomed to giving out his number and leaving himself _vulnerable_ to caring. It was all very juvenile, in his opinion – like high school students playing at being adult, paralyzingly insecure and constantly watching the phone, waiting for their crush to call.

L did not appreciate the comparison.

Nor did he appreciate the knowing glances Matt tossed him free of charge whenever he swung by the hotel to report on the mini assignments L sent him on or get instructions or just make a general nuisance of himself.

At least Mello wasn't present at the moment, though L was rather put out that his sneaky plans to get the blond out of the country for the week had thus far turned out to be pointless. Accordingly, he was a little peeved – irrationally, perhaps – that Light had lead him on and interested him enough to make him actually exert himself in continuing a quasi-relationship, then blithely strolled away without another word. He wondered if Light would have been so blasé about ignoring his conveniently-given number if he knew it was L he was snubbing.

Smirking cognac eyes dusted with unshakeable arrogance flashed in his mind.

Probably. But that was just part of what made Light appealing.

Bah.

L took a moody bite of cheesecake, spearing it viciously with his fork then pulling it slowly off with his teeth, which scraped quietly along the metal.

He was bothered. He was bothered that he was bothered, and he was bothered that Matt and Watari could both tell he was bothered. And he was bothered that he still had a rather steady flame of interest in Light, despite the annoyance he felt – though he admitted his personality was twisted enough that it was likely his annoyance just fanned the flame.

_Bzzt_._ Bzzt. Bzzt._

And he was bothered that every time one of the phones in pocket buzzed, his mind, without his permission, jolted to the assumption that it was Light, even though a second later he was brought sharply back to reality when he reminded himself it was likely just the silver phone.

And it always was. Just like now.

He snapped the phone open and dangled it next to his ear, not bothering to hide the irritation from his voice as he answered.

"Mello. I told you to call in every evening and report back. I do not think it necessary for you to call me more often than that, barring any unforeseeable emergencies, and especially not three times a day, as has been your average thus far – not to mention all the calls you've made to Matt, which has taken his attention away from his own task on more than one occasion. Have you finished the case yet?"

"_Jesus Christ, L, what crawled up your ass and died? Do you need a cake injection or something? And yes, we've finished the case – no thanks to the slow fuck next to me. Do you know how long it took him just to- what the fuck do you think you're doing? I'm talking to L, wait your bloody turn- hey! Don't even think-"_

"_L. This is Near. We were successful in apprehending the culprit and recovering the stolen diamond. The French police have agreed to a fee of-"_

"_Fucking hell, Near, I was talking! Don't give me that shit about you getting to the point faster – I was getting there! Anyway, L, look – the case is all finished up with the t's dotted and the i's crossed and all the loose ends tied up in pretty little bows, so can we come back now?"_

L welcomed the expectant break of silence with relief and used it to finally hear himself think – though his next decision really required no time for consideration.

"No," he spoke immediately into the phone. "I think not. You may return in two days, after your week is completed. Part of the purpose of this training exercise was for you to learn to get along together for at least a week, and I will not tolerate a job done halfway. Or, I suppose, five-sevenths the way. In either case, you will not be setting foot on a plane until Friday at the latest. Am I understood?"

"_L, that's completely unnecessary! Why the fuck should we spend two days in France doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing, when we could be in Japan helping with your case?"_

"Because I said so."

"_God fucking dammit, I knew you were going to pull your whole fucked up 'I am L, the world must obey me' reasoning. Listen here, L. When I get my hands on your scrawny little ass, I'm going to-"_

"Goodbye, Mello. I will see you in two days. Please relay my instructions to Near."

"_L! Don't you fucking dare hang up that phone-"_

Click.

L stared at the closed cell phone in brow-furrowed dislike, willing it not to ring again. A futile effort, he supposed, but perhaps today would be the day all his successors went along with his wishes without complaint. All he wanted was to be left alone in his bad mood and slip undisturbed into his work. Perhaps that was too much to ask for?

_Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._

Clearly, it was.

He flicked the phone back open.

"Mello. Unless there is some sort of serious emergency – which does not include a chocolate shortage or a disagreement with your colleague – I do not want you to call me again."

"_But L! Can I at least get a separate hotel room? If I spend another night in the same room as him, I swear I'll end up murdering him in my sleep."_

L paused, considering.

"That would be acceptable. But you will sit next to him on the plane. Goodbye."

"_Wait a fucking min-"_

Click.

L snapped the phone shut and slipped it without care back into the pocket of his baggy jeans, hopeful that he wouldn't hear from his more explosive successor until at least another twenty-four hours.

A quiet cup of tea was placed unobtrusively by his computer, and L gave Watari a brief but grateful nod.

It was nice, just having him and Watari in the room – just like the days when L was barely starting his foray into the world of investigation. It was peaceful. No loud interruptions, no nosy investigations into his sex life, no concentration-breaking phone calls. The ideal situation for detective work.

_Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._

That was it. Chocolate privileges were being suspended for a month, at least. It didn't matter that Mello was now technically an adult – L was withholding all rights to anything that even was distantly related to chocolate.

With quickly growing irritation and even more quickly shrinking patience, L dug the vibrating phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, pinching it a little harder than perhaps required up to his ear.

"I sincerely do not believe this call is going to be necessary. Do you not recall me saying to only telephone in case of an emergency?"

And L nearly dropped the cell phone, which he realized belatedly was _not_ his new silver L phone, when instead of Mello's brash tones it was a much silkier, mildly amused voice that carried across the phone line and into his ear.

"_Actually, I don't remember that. In fact, I'm fairly certain you didn't say anything at all when you gave me your number."_

The smooth voice spread across his awareness like warmed honey, bringing with it images of tanned thighs and long fingers and a consuming gaze of searing amber, and the base of L's spine began to get that funny tingle he remembered so well.

"Light-kun?"

"_Hello, Ryuzaki."_

To go along with the funny tingle, L's stomach did a funny little twist, as though practicing for organ gymnastics, and he had to remind himself that, no matter how much sex appeal Light was apparently able to project with just his voice, L was still considerably annoyed with him.

As if determined to add mind reading to his list of possible careers, along with male model and phone sex worker, Light said softly,_ "You're annoyed with me,"_ keeping a sleek, smug smile in his voice.

"How very presumptuous of you, Light-kun, to so easily conclude you are significant enough to affect my mood. I am not annoyed with you."

"_Hah, liar."_

L shifted in his seat, finding a more comfortable angle to crouch in.

"There is simply no logical reason for me to be annoyed with you," he decided, now settled in for an engaging conversation. "You cannot know that I am annoyed with you, when the only evidence you have is your own assumptions."

Light chuckled, a low, smooth chuckle that traveled a direct route from the ear piece to in between L's legs.

"_I know you're annoyed with me, because I'm annoyed with you."_

"That is very flawed logic, Light-kun."

"_Unconventional logic – not flawed. And sometimes unconventional logic is the only kind that can explain unconventional people, such as yourself."_

"You realize you have just indirectly called yourself unconventional," L stated, rolling his eyes around the room and finding it empty, Watari having stepped into the kitchen a few minutes before.

Against his ear, Light's voice curled out again, low and hypnotic and alluring.

"_Well, I certainly am not on the same plane as most people, so in a way I suppose I could be called unconventional."_

"You are certainly much more arrogant than conventional people."

"_Mm, now who's the one making assumptions? I didn't say I thought I was on a higher plane than most people, just a different one. You just assumed I meant it in an egotistical manner."_

"Wrong," L said smugly. "I knew it was meant in an egotistical manner, because I am egotistical myself."

"_That's very hypocritical logic, Ryuzaki-kun_."

"'Kun'?" he repeated, a smile slipping up to his lips without his permission.

"_It was necessary to complete the parallel. Would you prefer 'Ryuzaki-chan'?_"

"No. No, I don't think I would."

"_I thought not."_

L took a smooth sip of tea to stop his mouth from grinning. This was ridiculous – and again, very juvenile. He should have long since passed the age when it was common to be affected by hearing a person's voice over the slight static of a telephone connection. The excitement he felt was needless and immature, and it really should have already been squashed by his former irritation with Light anyway. That didn't stop it, however, from hijacking his adrenaline and making his libido cock an ear in interest.

"Did you have a purpose in calling, Light-kun, or do you merely wish to continue flirting?"

"_Flirting?"_

"Is that not what we are doing?" L asked artlessly, keeping his eyes wide and innocent even though he knew Light wasn't there to appreciate the sight. "Are we not flirting?"

"_No. I'm actually being annoyed with you."_ The ill-humored words did not at all match the low, seductive hum that voiced them, and that persistent grin made another sneak attack on L's lips.

"How very upsetting. I was under the impression this was a mutually enjoyable conversation. Please accept my apologies for distressing you, as I assure you the offense was not intentional."

L was quite sure there was a pleased smirk on Light's face as he spoke next, because it painted his words with a quiet satisfaction as they slipped out between his lips.

"_That doesn't sound sincere at all. I think you'll have to find some way to make it up to me if you want me to believe your earnestness."_

L paused a moment, thinking, then agreeably answered, "That sounds reasonable. However, since I am also annoyed with you, does that not cancel out any need on either side to repay for an offense given? An eye for an eye."

"_I thought you weren't annoyed with me._"

"Ah, I wasn't. But you are a very persuasive person, Light-kun, and have converted me to your side with your unshakeable insistence that I was, in fact, annoyed with you. Put simply, I have seen the light."

"_Somehow, I'm not surprised to find you aren't above using horribly stale puns on my name that I've heard my entire life. But perhaps you have a point. I suppose, in light of our mutual irritation, there is no need for you to make up for annoying me."_

"Hypocrisy is unflattering, Light-kun."

"_I wasn't being hypocritical."_

"You just a moment ago made a pun on your name, immediately after scolding me for doing so. I would call that hypocritical. And yes, I know you were being hypocritical, as I am hypocritical myself."

"_I believe that logic has been done to death by this point in the conversation. And I wasn't making a pun; I was using the phrase seriously. I refuse to avoid using certain words and phrases merely because of the name I was given."_

L grinned, not bothering now to try to stop it.

"I knew you were making a pun, Light-kun, because I made a pun myself."

There was a funny little rush of air over the line, as though there had been a breath of laughter released and quickly suppressed on the other side, but Light's voice was as flawless as ever when he spoke again.

"_Done to death, Ryuzaki. Are you deliberately trying to be annoying?"_

"It is actually a talent which comes naturally to me," L assured him, watching his tea idly as it danced around its cup while he swirled it. "And on the subject of annoying – I came to a realization a moment ago. Rather than two offenses canceling each other out, I believe it is more courteous for both parties to make reparation."

"_You are suddenly very concerned with courtesy."_

"Do you not recall me saying you are a very persuasive person? I have taken your earlier lectures to heart and changed my manner-less ways."

"_Again, I doubt your sincerity. But since you are so determined to abide by the rules of civility, I suppose I'm obligated to go along with it. Very well, how do you intend to make it up to me for being an annoying bastard, Ryuzaki?"_

"Insults are not courteous, Light-kun. Remember, we are trying to concern ourselves with manners here."

"_Please excuse me. I meant to say, how do you intend to make up for being an annoying bastard, Ryuzaki-_san_?"_

"I intend to take you to dinner. And from you, in exchange for you being an irritating prick, I would like to watch you draw a face. Is this acceptable?"

There was a brief pause, then Light's voice washed over the phone once again in a heady, spine-prickling haze.

"_Whose face? It can't be yours, because your face is still being stubbornly difficult, so I'm taking a break for a bit on it."_

"I am unsure whether to be pleased or concerned my face is giving you trouble. But don't worry; the face I want you to draw is your own."

"…_You want to watch me draw my face?"_

"Yes," L answered simply. "Is this a problem?"

Another pause, barely even there, followed by a smooth, _"No, that's fine. I'm free Friday."_

"How advantageous. I'm free Friday as well." Choosing your own hours was just one of the many perks that went along with being your own boss, not to mention being L. "Shall we meet outside the coffee shop from before at seven o'clock?"

"_As long as that isn't where you're taking me to dinner, otherwise all you'll be getting in return is a finger-painting."_

"Do you paint, Light-kun?" L asked, mildly curious, as so far he'd only seen evidence that Light sketched.

"_Huh? Oh, no, not really. I took one class a long time ago, but it wasn't very interesting, and honestly, I wasn't very good."_

Now L was interested. Making a decision in a flash, he said, "I've changed my mind, Light-kun. Instead of drawing me a self-portrait, I would like to see you paint."

Once again showing off his mind-reading skills, Light instantly returned, _"You just want to see me do something I have difficulty with."_

"My motives are inconsequential. That is what I have decided I would like, and for you to back out now would be dishonorable, don't you think?"

"_I don't have any painting supplies."_

"I can provide those," L assured, knowing he had already won.

"…_Fine. Just don't expect a masterpiece, by any means."_

"Of course not, Light-kun."

"_Alright then. I'll see you Friday."_

"Until Friday."

_Click._

Five minutes later, L had already returned to his task of searching through victims' histories when Watari reentered the room to remove his empty teacup.

"What has made you so happy, sir?"

L instantly became aware of the small smile still playing around his lips.

He banished it immediately.

"Nothing, Watari. Could you bring me another cup of tea? Please."

Watari nodded and strode with calm dignity back into the kitchen, and L turned back to his computer, giving himself a stern reprimand. Not only had he gone and invited Light to dinner, which was a little date-like for his usual no-romance policies, but now he was acting like a giddy, infatuated schoolgirl.

And no, he still did not appreciate the comparison.

Despite this, he felt a little coil of anticipation in his gut as he thought back to his bantering phone conversation with Light. The subject matter had been trivial, and at times hidden behind silly faux-courtesy, but they had talked for over ten minutes without L getting bored once, which was something of a rare experience. It made him want to have other conversations with Light – serious and silly, philosophical and playful, of many different subjects under the sun.

And it made him want to have sex with him. But really, L was discovering a lot of things which made him want to have sex with Light. Coffee mugs were at the top of the list.

L again forced himself to return to his work, in a much better mood than before. He felt he could even tolerate another phone call from Mello right now, were the need to arise.

Speaking of which, L was very aware that Friday was also the day his successors were due to return home, but he wasn't worried. This time, he'd turn off the security cameras before Light even arrived, so there would be no need to worry about remembering to delete the tapes. He'd also have Watari reserve another room for Matt and Near, or tell them to stay at Mello's again. And he'd bolt the hotel door. Just in case.

Satisfied with his planned precautions, L pushed the subject aside and returned his focus to the matter at hand.

Mostly. If he occasionally was distracted by the thought of a silky voice or a throaty chuckle or a willful pair of sly eyes, he didn't let it become noticeable.

Mostly.

* * *

><p>Friday, 3:00 am, France time<p>

**_Ring...ring...ring._**

"_Hey, Mels. You realize your plane leaves in like one hour, right? I really think you could wait 'til you get back to talk at me. Anyway, what's up, man?_

" …_Hey, you there, Mels?_

_"…Hello?_

"…_Um…Mello? You there?"_

"_I slept with Near."_

"…_Okaaay, wanna run that one by me again?"_

"_I fucking had sex with Near."_

"_I…see. Uh, wow…"_

"…_Say something, Matt."_

"_Uh…at least we know he has a dick now?"_

"_You think I'm a fucking idiot."_

"_I don't think you're a fucking anything, Mello. I'm just kinda confused. I mean, I thought you hated Near."_

"_I do! Jesus, I hate him so much. I mean, it was just, he was sitting there on the couch building a mini version of that stupid tower of cards he always used to build at Wammy's, and he was so fucking smug and it was pissing me off so fucking much, and he kept saying fucking annoying things, and for a minute I thought I was going to shoot him in the fucking face and…fuck, I don't know."_

"_So…instead you had sex with him."_

"_Dammit Matt, what's wrong with me? Do you think I'm seriously fucked up?"_

"_Hey, hey – calm down, man. It makes sense if you think about, okay? You've been obsessed with beating Near practically your entire life, not to mention you're the kinda guy that reacts physically to a lot of emotion. And I bet you were drunk off your ass at the time too, right?"_

"_Uh, I had a fifth of Jack. Probably – don't quite remember."_

"_Che, you lush. Oh hang on, the wind keeps blowing out my fag...'kay, 'm good. So what happened afterwards?"_

"_I was too wasted to even jizz, I think, and I'm pretty sure I just kinda passed out at the end. I was pretty much out all day today- er, yesterday. When I woke up he was just sitting there, building that damn tower again like nothing happened, and I just grabbed some clothes and left."_

"_Wait, so this happened Wednesday night?"_

"_Uh, yeah – no, more like Thursday morning. Shit…what the fuck was I thinking? I just, I– I'm kinda flipping out here, man. Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck-"_

"_Hey, just take a breath and chill out a minute. Listen, I know this feels like a big deal now, but it ain't so bad. C'mon man, you've fucked around with a lot of people, this is just one more. And I'm pretty sure you don't need to worry about any diseases with him. I mean, it's Near so it's a little weird, but that's gonna blow over really fast, you know? Unless…I mean, unless you wanna do it again."_

"_No! I feel kinda sick just thinking about it all. Jesus Christ… I'm such a fucking idiot."_

"_Eh, maybe."_

"_You're a big help, Matty."_

"_Heh. Rather I sugarcoat everything for you? Speaking of, maybe ease up on the chocolate a bit."_

"_How'd you know I'm eating chocolate right know?"_

"_Mello."_

"_Alright, alright. But I've only had like, eight bars."_

"_Man, you do everything in extremes, don't you?"_

"…_God, I'm really fucked up, aren't I? Maybe I'm some sort of sex freak or something, and I just fuck everything and everyone? I mean, I'm not normal, right?"_

"_Ah fuck, Mels, you know I'm playing. Can't stand when you get in your self-pity kick. Geh…you better appreciate this, 'cause I kinda wanna castrate myself for saying something so girly, but, you're a great guy, okay? Don't worry. You're not fucked up – at least, not any more than anyone else Wammy's has shat out – and you're not a freak. You're just, really great, okay? There. I'm not saying it again, so snap out of this, alright?"_

"_Heh. What did I say about the estrogen?"_

"_Geez, shut up, man. Try to cheer a guy up…"_

"_Kidding, kidding. Anyway, I gotta go. See ya. …And thanks, Matt. You're um…you're a great guy too, you know."_

"_Course I am. Who else would listen to your whiny, girly problems?"_

"_Yeah, I know. You're the fucking best friend in the world, and all that. Everyone praise Matt. But really, man, thanks. You really are a fucking incredible friend."_

"…_Course. What else am I here for? Now you better go, or you'll miss the plane."_

_"Yeah. Oh fuck…this is going to be the most awkward plane ride of my life. Fuck."_

"_Have fun."_

"_Ehh. Brilliant. Twelve hours uninterrupted, sitting next to Near. I'mma need my chocolate and whiskey. Uh, bye, I guess."_

"_Yeah, see ya when you get back."_

"_See ya, Matt."_

_Click._

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Um…<em>_did this chapter make at least a little glimmer of sense? It's so difficult for me to tell. Is Light's twisted arty plot beginning to get a little clearer? If you're still terribly confused and can't make heads nor tails of anything, it's my fault, so feel free to give me a slap upside the head and tell me to start making some sense. Perspective is a wonderful thing I often lack._

_But yes, I'm back from my epic travels across the continent! Ha ha…except not nearly so exciting. But thanks for putting up with my disappearance, and a __**huge**__ thank you to all of you who reviewed last chapter. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to find those waiting in my inbox – I grinned like mad and kept jumping up to pace around because I was too happy to sit. Thank you!_

_The trip was great – no one died or started an international crisis, which I think qualifies it as a success. Honestly, I spent a good portion of the time laughing (discreetly) at my adorable sister-in-law, who is very sweet and very naïve (and very pregnant), and, despite being older than I am, often makes hilarious sexual innuendos without ever realizing. Heeeh. And lots of other funny comments. For instance, she was talking about flavored cigarettes, and she wondered if the fruity flavor made it really hard for people to quit smoking. As in, "Mmm, just can't get enough of this grapey goodness. Really oughta quit, but…that addicting fruity flavor!" Phff, I died. Love the girl, but she's an honest-to-god space cadet sometimes (I have no room to speak but do anyway)._

_Gah, sorry for the sister-in-law tangent. Point is, I'm back now, so updates should be coming a bit quicker. Thanks for reading._


	9. Dinners and Dates

**Chapter Nine**

_Dinners and Dates_

* * *

><p>"You're going on a date?"<p>

L, absorbed in his task of reading the police report from one of the more recent musical murders – and, more importantly, eating angel food cake – barely spared Matt a glance at the mildly incredulous greeting.

"Yes, I suppose it would qualify as a date," he said dully. "Do you have the information from the NPA I asked you to retrieve?"

Matt dropped a slender stack of paper-clipped documents on the coffee table in front of L, right next to his crumb-dusted plate.

"This was all the info they could find on former music teachers of the vics. I don't see why you couldn't have just had them email it – that wig makes my head itch like you wouldn't believe, and the detective I met with looked like a young Japanese Don Cornelius, but with a whole lot less soul a whole lot more suspicious glaring. Not to mention he had to check the clearance code I gave him ten times before he was satisfied I really had been sent by the great and mysterious L. Why'd ya insist on having it physically picked up, anyway?"

"Paranoid whim," L answered shortly, delicately plucking up the stack by the top right corner. "You of all people should understand how easily the internet is abused for malicious purposes."

"That's why you've got me around, remember?" Matt said, snagging a water bottle from the mini fridge and making his way back towards L. "Your friendly technology guard dog. I'm so fucking _reliable_."

L peered up from his study of the reports and watched as Matt sank heavily into the couch opposing him.

"You seem unusually embittered today, Matt. Is there something in particular distressing you, perhaps related to your self-professed reliability?"

Matt laughed and tossed him an easy grin that would have completely fooled most people who witnessed its roguish schoolboy charm. L, however, was not most people. He also guessed that, were he here, Light too would have noticed the strained edges of the smile and the forced ease in the eyes – but that was neither here nor there at the moment, he reminded himself, and he focused his attention back on the matter at hand.

"Nah, I'm fine," Matt said, giving the cap of his bottle a hard twist to break the seal. "Don't try to turn this conversation on me – we're talking about you and your so-called date right now."

"So nosy," L murmured with a sigh, resting the papers on his tucked-up knees and meeting Matt's gaze with resigned eyes. "Very well. I suppose it will take less effort to merely indulge your bizarre curiosity than to evade your questioning for the next four hours. What is it you wish to know?"

"How many dates have you been on in your life?" Matt said directly, cutting right down to the chase. "Dodgy pick-ups for one-night-stands don't count."

"Those are not dodgy," L protested. "I research my potential partners very carefully before approaching them."

"Yeah, that's what makes them dodgy. Answer the question."

Consigning himself to his fate, L pressed his lips together in thought. "I attended a baking contest with a woman in Paris two years ago. That would be considered a date, I believe."

"You just went for the cake. Try again," Matt said, taking a swig of water from the corner of his mouth.

"I had dinner with a man in New York," L offered pensively, preparing himself a bite of cake. "When I was seventeen." The man had been a suspect in a string of gruesome murders peppering the city, but Matt didn't need to know that.

Nevertheless, Matt waved the declaration away like smoke from a cigarette. "Dinner alone doesn't cut it. It has to be with romantic intentions."

Fork in mouth, L raised a bony finger to stop Matt's unwarranted dismissal. "Actually, it was with romantic intentions," he explained, with an excusable amount of smugness in his voice, which managed to slip out despite the utensil lodged in the way. Feigned romantic intentions, but again, Matt didn't need to know that. "I believe the point stands."

Matt, however, had unfortunately worked with him long enough to be suspicious. "Wait a minute… Did you say when you were seventeen?"

L nodded, mentally cursing himself and Watari as he realized Matt was probably more well-informed about his past than he'd initially suspected.

"Thought so," Matt continued with a distinctly satisfied air. "Watari told me this story – it was for the Kalenik case, wasn't it? Nice try, but fake dates done for an investigation don't count either."

"Your criteria are very stingy. Well then," L conceded, "when working under such stringent qualifications, I suppose I have not been on anything that could, in technical terms, be considered a romantic date. So yes, tonight will be my first. Was there a particular reason you wished to know this unflattering confession, or was it simply idle curiosity?"

Matt raised his eyebrows at him across the coffee table. "Can you blame me for being curious? You're what – twenty-five? – and you've never cared to go on a date before, and now suddenly you're waltzing off to dinner with a guy after sleeping with him once? It's a little weird, L. Especially since we're right in the middle of a case right now."

L glared half-heartedly. "I do not waltz," he declared defensively. "And it was three times having sex with him, if we're being technical, not once. In any case," he paused to pinch up a few crumbs and drop them on his tongue, chewing them carefully as he spoke, "I believe you're making a bigger deal out of the matter than necessary. I wanted to see him again, and I am merely eating with him before we return to have sex. There is nothing weird about it. Quite normal, actually. And that reminds me – please ensure you are not in the rooms after eight o'clock tonight. I do not care if you stay in another hotel room or at Mello's, just not here."

Matt was studying him carefully, but his sharp gaze was mostly hidden by a glaze of carefree indifference, obscuring it as effectively as a pair of goggles. Then he shrugged.

"Alright, whatever," he agreed with obvious unconcern, while L cleaned his plate crumb by crumb and wondered if Matt realized how tellingly agressive he'd been recently in satisfying his curiosity, particularly where Mello - and, by connection, Light - was concerned. "I'll leave you alone to fuck around. Whatever. Have fun, I guess." He stood, digging into his pocket for his ever-present pack of Mild Sevens, leaving his almost empty bottle on the table. "You need anything else? 'Cause otherwise I'm gonna head out for the day."

"Just one thing," L began, pretending to pick up his reports and start to flick through them again but really studying Matt carefully as he lit up a smoke with a well-practiced flick of his thumb. "Would you be opposed to retrieving Mello and Near from the airport? Their plane arrives shortly after eleven o'clock this evening, and I feel it is not quite healthy for Watari to be out and about at that hour, unless strictly necessary."

Matt smiled that strained attempt at a casual grin at him through the slight haze of smoke escaping the side of his mouth. "Yeah, that's alright. Can I drive the Benz?"

Yes, something was definitely up with Matt. And L was ninety-eight percent sure it had to do with Mello.

"You will have to check with Watari," was all he said, however. "He is the one with the keys."

"Right," Matt grinned. "I'll keep those two away from the hotel for you too. And you're welcome."

"I did not say thank you," L murmured, waving Matt away with a brush of his hand, while his mind tried to figure out if it would rather read about music teachers or spend a few minutes puzzling over the strange behavior of his subordinate.

"I know," Matt said, moseying over to the kitchen to track down Watari. "But once in a while I like to pretend someone on this team besides me has manners. Or basic social skills. Or can at least see something right in front of their fucking nose that doesn't have to do with a case."

As he was about to slip away through the door, L helpfully reminded him, not looking up from the papers in his hand, "If you're going to be speaking with Watari, perhaps consider putting that cigarette out first."

"Oh shite, thanks," he said, and, without hesitation, promptly whipped his cigarette out between his lips then ground it onto his outstretched tongue, leaving behind a bitter dot of black ash that didn't seem to bother him. He flicked his fingers in a carefree wave and slipped the cigarette into his pocket. "See ya later."

Then he was gone, leaving L with something else to distract himself with until the too-slow electric clock on the desk across the room, which claimed the current time to be three in the afternoon, announced it was time to leave.

* * *

><p>Light was not ashamed of the fact that he dressed well.<p>

He didn't not find the quality embarrassing – if anything it was empowering, another skill to be manipulated – and there was nothing inherently gay (despite his own homosexuality) about being able to put a few pieces of fabric together without looking like he'd crawled out of a sewer system somewhere. Unlike a certain annoying bastard he could bring up.

A certain annoying bastard who, after heavy-handedly informing Light he'd be treating him to dinner, failed to tell him where or, more importantly, the quality of the restaurant. Light may have been able to dress well, but that didn't mean he was a mind-reader.

Light glared at the clothes hanging unhelpfully in his closet, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs as he tried to guess, from what he knew about Ryuzaki, how nice of a restaurant he was likely to choose tonight.

Ryuzaki was obviously at least fairly well-off and not afraid to flaunt it, if the ridiculously large hotel suite was any indicator, which made it seem likely he'd choose somewhere similarly expenseive and refined. However, the lax state of his hygiene and his apparent unconcern for social niceties were not very promising at all. Light had a sneaking feeling that, even were they to visit a three-Michelin-star restaurant, Ryuzaki would stroll in wearing that atrocious outfit of baggy jeans and a wrinkly shirt, with his hair making it seem like he'd gotten into a fight with a blowdryer and lost.

Maybe this date was a bad idea.

Wandering into a high-class restaurant full of prominent and influencial patrons, with a man by his side who looked like he'd just been picked up off the streets, was the sort of thing that tended to draw a lot of curious eyes. Light really didn't need that kind of negative attention. Plus, if word somehow got back to his father he had been seen at a cozy dinner-for-two with another man, however scruffily dressed, the results could be bothersome. Not that Light doubted his ability to talk his way out of anything concerning his father, but he'd rather not if he didn't have to.

Besides, if everything went according to plan, Light would end up painting in front of Ryuzaki, which, no matter the circumstances, was a dangerous idea.

Maybe he should just call up Ryuzaki and claim a sudden sickness…

But no. Light knew he wouldn't seriously back out of this, wouldn't earnestly consider it even for a minute. For one, Ryuzaki was just too damn interesting. For another, while Light had been forced to take a break from trying to draw Ryuzaki's face to his complete satisfaction – strictly for sanity's sake – he had not by any means abandoned his determination to finish the drawing, so seeing the face again would definitely be helpful.

However, Light was honest enough with himself to admit that neither of those were the main he reason he would refuse to call off the date. The main reason, without question, was because it would mean Light forfeiting the game, Ryuzaki winning by default, and Light sure as hell wasn't going to allow that.

So he gritted his teeth and picked an outfit – a painfully expensive ensemble he'd secretly bought as an indulgence on his eighteenth birthday, the sort of outfit where the tags cost more than the actual clothing – and carefully slipped it on.

The full-length mirror on his wall, unashamed flatterer that it was, showed him just how good a choice it was. The dark jeans wrapped around his hips like a jealous lover, grudgingly showing off his long, endless lines, and the open-collar button-up revealed sufficient skin to snare and tempt the eye, whatever gender the beholder. It was casual enough to feel comfortable wearing just about anywhere short of the beach, but designer enough to wear without worry among the rich and beautiful. And the jacket thrown on as an afterthought would get him past most dress codes.

He looked fantastic, in his own admittedly not quite humble opinion, radiating casual elegance and oozing sex appeal, and his obedient mirror obviously agreed with him.

With any luck, any curious eyes would be too busy drinking up his flawless appearance to notice his companion's scruffy lack thereof.

Ryuzaki better be damn grateful.

With one last appraising glance at his reflection, Light grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys and sauntered out the door, trying to figure out how pissed he had the right to be at Ryuzaki if he turned out to be overdressed.

* * *

><p>He definitely wasn't overdressed. Luckily, he wasn't underdressed either.<p>

Ryuzaki, however, certainly was – he was wearing what Light suspected was the exact same disheveled outfit he had seen him in last – but for some reason, despite this and the fact that it usually required more than just two days to acquire a reservation to this particular restaurant, the maître d' was practically tripping over himself in his eagerness to seat them as soon as Ryuzaki casually dropped his name.

Once they were seated in a private corner (thankfully away from prying and potentially tattling eyes), with unobtrusive music washing over them and elegant glasses and plates waiting proudly to be filled, Light cocked an eyebrow across the table at his odd date, who was sitting in that familiar gargoyle crouch and examining a delicate silver fork.

"Explain," Light demanded.

Ryuzaki rolled his dark eyes forwards to gaze innocently back at him. "Explain what, Light-kun?"

"Hah. Don't give me that, Ryuzaki," Light returned with an unamused gaze. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

Ryuzaki sighed wearily, as though severely put upon. "Alright. I suppose you are wondering why, despite my…unconventional appearance, we are being served with such conscientious courtesy, correct?"

"Something like that," Light nodded, crossing one leg casually over the other.

"Simply put," Ryuzaki leaned forward conspiratorially, checking left then right for any eavesdropping ears, "I have rather a lot of money."

"…You have rather a lot of money," Light repeated skeptically.

Ryuzaki nodded. "Rather. I eat here fairly often, as I am fond of their dessert menu, so the management and staff have become familiar, to some extent, with the depth of my wallet. They are always very obliging when I come."

"I see. And how does a computer software engineer have the required…wallet depth to warrant such VIP treatment?"

With mischievous eyes, Ryuzaki offered him a small smile. "I am very good at what I do." He plucked up his menu from the table – which Light noticed with very little surprise was the dessert menu – and began gingerly flipping through it. "Such suspicion, Light-kun," he said, flickering his black eyes up to Light then back to the menu. "Did you suppose I earned my wealth through dubiously legal means?"

Light scooped up his own menu and let his eyes start to casually scan the contents. "I don't really know what to think, _Ryuzaki_," he said, giving the slightest stress to the name, well aware it was probably an alias and letting Ryuzaki know. "And to be frank, I don't really care. Unless it interferes with my life and well-being, I have no interest in any dirty secrets you may or may not be hiding."

"How very open-minded of you."

Light grinned charmingly up at him. "Of course, I'd expect the same consideration to be given my own privacy. That isn't a confession I'm hiding anything, obviously, but you understand how it is."

_Don't dig unless you want me to dig back._

Ryuzaki smiled quietly in return. "Of course. And how very convenient to us both."

_Agreed, Light-kun._

And they both turned their attention back to their respective menus and began the laborious process of choosing a meal.

* * *

><p>L wasn't entirely decided yet which dessert before him was the most mouth-watering: the Black Forest strudel, with whipped cream and cherry balsamic vinegar; the tantalizing hazelnut semifreddo; the Guanaja chocolate soufflé drizzled with caramel; or his temptingly dressed date sitting across the table, who was making his way with considerable poise through the first of a seven-course meal L had taken the liberty to order for him – much to Light's smile-covered annoyance – while skipping straight to the desserts himself.<p>

What a lucky thing it was he didn't need to choose among them all.

"How is it?" he asked courteously, cutting into the soufflé first.

Light's eyes flickered up at him and his mouth smiled captivatingly. "Very tasty, thank you – you stubborn, controlling bastard," he said pleasantly.

L blinked in feigned disconcertment. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you want the six-course?"

Light rolled his eyes and didn't bother deigning L with a response, and L grinned into his first bite of the evening.

"By the way," he said, rolling the chocolate dessert around on his tongue, savoring the meltingly rich taste, "you look very nice." According to the undisputed wisdom of countless teen magazines, it was important to compliment your date on his or her appearance; even L knew that. "I had anticipated the need to tell you to change your clothes, as I had forgotten to inform you of the dress code, but you managed perfectly well on your own."

Obviously, L had not forgotten to inform him; he had been hoping for the opportunity to visit Light's apartment while Light changed – preferably while Mello was still locked away on a plane, slowly going insane next to Near. And of course, the chance to order Light around, even just concerning his clothes, was never to be passed by.

"Of course I managed," Light agreed smoothly, his lash-veiled glance informing L he saw directly through to his provoking intentions. "Perhaps I ought to have informed _you_ of the dress code instead?"

L licked another bite of soufflé from his fork.

"I have rather a lot of money," he repeated.

"Yes, I'm beginning to gather as much. It's obviously where you get your annoying sense of entitlement from."

Well, L felt it was also in part due to the fact that he happed to be the _greatest detective in the world_, but perhaps Light had a point. Money in large quantities had the convenient ability to excuse most eccentricities, though L wished to point out that he had yet to do anything as eccentric as turn a swimming pool into a giant subwoofer or build a skyscraper for the sake of a single investigation.

He could make no guarantees for the future, however.

Across the table, Light took a bite of cold sea eel served with juicy red grapes – an atrocity of a food combination, in L's opinion – and his eyes suddenly brightened.

"You have to try this," he insisted, looking almost like a child who had discovered a magical world beneath his floorboards, and were L the easily persuaded sort he might have allowed the monstrosity to enter his mouth, simply because of the irresistibility of Light's bright amber eyes.

"I think not, Light-kun," L demurred firmly, adequately conveying all his disgust with a single glance down at the slimy-looking cut of fish. Definitely not.

"Open your mouth," Light commanded, instantly morphing from boyish delight to the arrogance of an emperor as he realized L was going to be stubborn, and L's mouth slipped open.

Apparently, L was the easily persuaded sort.

It also might have had something to do with the sly foot that had sneaked up to press into his thigh at the same moment, but L wasn't going to be picky with the details right now.

Light deftly captured a bite of eel and slid it into L's mouth before L's brain could protest and snap it shut, and he slipped his foot a little higher. "Chew," was the crisp order he gave.

L's mouth obediently chewed.

Very easily persuaded.

L somehow managed to gag the bite past his taste buds and down his throat, and once the bite was finished and L's tongue hurriedly soothed with a large bite of strudel, Light nodded in satisfaction and unfortunately pulled his foot away.

"Good job," he said, rewarding L with a winning smile. L would have rather had that winning foot back, but he supposed the smile was nice too.

"That was disgusting," L decided resolutely, knowing (hoping) nothing Light said – or did with his foot – would change his mind.

"But at least now you have something to counteract all that sugar you're pouring into your system," Light smiled brightly, his eyes sly. "A twig against the river, I suppose, but still good for you." He turned back to the small dish in front of him with a smug air.

"Light-kun, are you perhaps criminally inclined?" L asked suddenly. He captured up another bite of strudel – which was excellent, by the way – and began rubbing it back and forth on his tongue with his fork in an attempt chase away any lingering fishy taste.

Light glanced up from his evil bowl of eel, eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?"

"You have the disposition to consider breaking the law and, I believe, the brains to get away with it. I was asking if you have the inclination."

"You're asking this because I managed to get you to eat a bite of eel?"

L nodded, unabashed. "It was quite a notable feat, actually. You are very wily."

Light slipped a piece of eel into his own mouth and swallowed it with a smile (_show off_, L thought). "And you are very ridiculous. No, I am not criminally inclined. My father and my upbringing made sure of that. Are you criminally inclined?" he returned jokingly.

"I think," L said slowly, considering the question seriously, "that, in different circumstances, I would have been in grave danger of becoming a criminal. Luckily, I was able to find something else to drive away my boredom." Then L noticed he was getting perilously close to classified information and Light was watching him curiously, so he quickly changed the subject.

"Have you managed to draw my face yet?"

Light instantly scowled, any dangerous curiosity instantly vanishing from his features.

"Not yet. But I will," he said confidently. "I've gotten very close."

"To be honest, I find it surprising you have not yet managed it," L said, his tone purposely shooting for offensive. Light was a little too fun to rile up for his own good. "Surely for someone of your skill it ought to be a simple matter? I would think it would just be an issue of arranging the features in the necessary proportions." He waved his fork around vaguely, trying to demonstrate the easy process it was to put a face together. He failed miserably, but since his purpose was more to get under Light's skin and less to accurately draw a face in the air with an eating utensil, he wasn't too concerned by this.

Light smiled tightly, obviously well aware of what L was up to.

"Afraid not," he said affably. "The problem isn't getting the proportions right or the eyes the correct shape, or, for that matter, tossing cake on the floor like you're doing now," he added with a raised eyebrow (L quickly stopped his air-doodling, as cake should never be wasted so callously). "It's more a trick of infusing the sketch with the personality. I can get it to look like you just fine, but not like _you_. Does that make sense?"

L thought back to the sketching of Mello he'd sneaked a look at, the brash graphite eyes so full of Mello's personality that it had felt like he was staring at the genuine article himself, and L decided it made perfect sense.

He also decided he was really in no hurry for Light to finish the drawing. It had been obvious from the start that part of the reason Light had agreed to meet him again was for a chance to study his face, and L had every intention to take full advantage of the fact. He planned to use Light's determination to finish his art as a bargaining tool, rather like a reverse _One Thousand and One Nights_, though not nearly as long and without the falling in love at the end bit.

So L just nodded and allowed the matter to drop, choosing instead to dig into his as of yet untried semifreddo, and happily changed the subject.

* * *

><p>When Light had been working through his third course – scallops with miso sauce – Ryuzaki had been brought out a several more plates of desserts sweet enough to make Light ill just thinking about them, which meant by the time Light reached his own concluding dish of rice with chopped mint, Ryuzaki had consumed nine entire desserts, all on his own.<p>

Light thought he might start to gag if he thought about it too much, so he carefully finished his rice and tried to avoid thinking about how Ryuzaki was now wiping up some leftover strawberry sauce from his plate with his finger and licking it off.

"Would you like dessert, Light-kun?"

Light eyed the sole remaining plate in front of Ryuzaki, now wiped clean, the rest having been cleared away long ago.

"I'm all right," he said firmly. "I think I absorbed a couple thousand calories worth just watching you."

Ryuzaki nodded agreeably. "Very well. Shall we return to my hotel now? I have been looking forward to observing you paint."

Ah yes, Light was going to paint, wasn't he?

He smiled in assent, deciding there was no sense running away from the issue – he'd much rather face it head on and get it over with.

With a flicker of Ryuzaki's eyes and a tilt of his head, the waiter was speedily summoned with the bill, and within minutes they were leaving the bright warmth of the restaurant and climbing into Ryuzaki's waiting car – _was that a Bentley? Light swore it had been a Mercedes last_ _time_ – and driving off into the night.

Light briefly entertained the thought that he was getting worrisomely used to being whisked away in expensive cars to even more expensive hotel suites.

Ah, well – nothing wrong with a little indulgence, he supposed.

The car ride was quiet, chiefly because within two minutes his and Ryuzaki's mouths had become tightly connected and were showing no signs of letting go any time soon – _maybe he wouldn't have to worry about the painting after all?_ – then they were finally coming to a glass-smooth stop in front of the hotel for the second time in just over a week. The white-haired gentleman in the driver's seat cleared his throat meaningfully, and Light, realizing the situation with an unpleasant jolt of surprise, pushed away from Ryuzaki and hid his embarrassment in a cough.

"Oh, we've arrived," Ryuzaki said without a trace of shame. "Thank you, Wallington, that will be all for tonight. I'll see you in the morning."

Wallington, as he was apparently named, nodded in genial understanding, and before Light knew it he and Ryuzaki were slipping out of the car and inside the hotel. Then, after a too-short elevator ride which he definitely would not have wanted his father to see the tapes of, he found himself shrugging out of his jacket while examining a rather formidably large, blank canvas set up in the center of Ryuzaki's suite's sitting room. Everything felt like it was moving along very quickly now, and Light had to refocus his brain to make sure he kept up.

"Is this acceptable? I was unsure which medium you felt most comfortable with, so I have provided for oil, acrylic, and watercolor."

Light was most accustomed to oil painting.

"Acrylic would be best, thank you," he said promptly, beginning to roll up his sleeves to his elbows. He hadn't expected Ryuzaki to go to quite this extent in his whim to see Light paint, and while it made it considerably less likely Light would be able to slip his way out of it, he figured he may as well try. "Listen, Ryuzaki," he began, tossing him the beginnings of a subtly smoldering glance out of the sides of his eyes, as Ryuzaki searched through a veritable army of bags of art supplies waiting by the sofa. "Are you sure you want me to do this? I'm not any good, and it will probably be pretty boring for you. I bet we can think of something more interesting to do instead."

Like fucking. Surely Ryuzaki was horny after the make-out session in the car and lift, right? Watching Light paint would be really unexciting, and it made no sense to waste their time for such a boring activity.

"We'll have sex later," Ryuzaki insisted stubbornly, with no subtlety at all, thrusting a bag of acrylic paint tubes and another of paintbrushes into Light's arms. "And I feel it only reasonable to warn you that your wily seductive ways will do you no good at the moment – I am quite resolute in this matter. It is only fair; after all, I have fulfilled my end of the bargain and taken you to dinner, so please uphold yours."

Damn it. Light had suspected this would be the case.

"All right, all right, I get," he agreed, setting the large bags on the floor and squatting down to root through them, while Ryuzaki settled into a perch on a nearby chair to watch. "Though I'm not sure why you're so determined to see me paint."

"It's very simple," Ryuzaki replied without hesitation. "Thus far into our acquaintance, you have proven to be annoyingly excellent in all aspects of life – with the possible exception of drawing my face, but even then it could be argued that while the sketch wasn't up to your usual standards, it was still quite good. So, to put it plainly, I want to see you do something you're uncomfortable with," he finished with a matter-of-fact nod of his head.

Light straightened from his crouch, plastic palette, paintbrush, and a few small bottles of paint in his arms, and shook his head exasperatedly. "Thought so," he muttered, mostly to himself, balancing the palette on the edge of the easel and beginning to squirt paint into the indentations. "Bastard," he added for good measure, with an unamused glance thrown out of the corners of his eyes, and that bit was all for Ryuzaki.

"Light-kun, would you like a…smock?" Ryuzaki asked, his lips popping over the last word.

Light shot him another annoyed glance. He had a strong feeling he was being made fun of, and Ryuzaki's innocent gaze wasn't helping change his mind.

"I'm fine, thanks. I will need masking tape, a cup of water, and an old cloth or something, however. If you wouldn't mind?"

Ryuzaki smiled, unbothered by the ice in his tone. "Of course, Light-kun. I forgot Wallington left those in the kitchen for you."

He pointed to the kitchen door helpfully, in case Light had forgotten where it was located after his last visit, and smiled. Bastard.

Light chucked a paintbrush at his messy head while passing by on his way to the kitchen, and there was a satisfying thud as Ryuzaki toppled from his precarious perch while attempting to dodge it.

"Thanks," Light said pleasantly, feeling much better. "Don't bother getting up – I'll grab them myself."

Waiting in a neat row on the counter, Light found the remaining necessary materials – though he thought the delicate crystal goblet was a bit of an overkill. But if Ryuzaki didn't care he was using it to clean off his paintbrush, then neither would he. Carefully picking up the goblet with one hand and grabbing the tape and cloth with the other, he smoothly walked back to the main room, finding Ryuzaki settled back onto his chair – perhaps a little more securely this time – and his thrown paintbrush resting on the easel.

Ryuzaki smiled at him encouragingly.

Light resisted the urge to throw the paintbrush at his head again. Or another, heavier one – Ryuzaki had evidently bought him plenty from which to choose.

But that could damage the art supplies, so instead he placed the water and cloth on the easel, next to his obligingly returned brush, and began boxing off a square of the canvas with the tape, his hands working deftly and quickly. When he was finished, he turned to Ryuzaki and regarded him sternly.

"I'll paint for thirty minutes – no longer. And you're not allowed to laugh."

Ryuzaki nodded in agreement, his dark eyes locking onto Light unwaveringly, and since Light could find no valid reason to protest further, he plucked up his brush, tentatively dipped it into the small puddle of sky he'd poured on his palette, and, after a breath's hesitation, began to paint.

He painted carefully, painstakingly, and with the brush bunched purposefully too tightly in his fingers, but despite this it wasn't long before he found himself slipping into a familiar state of single-minded concentration, engulfed in the possessive pull of color and paint and of manipulating the small world contained only on easel and palette, bending it to his will.

It had been Sayu who had gotten Light interested in painting.

Only eight years old, she had been looking through some of his sketches, Light hovering on the side and feeling strangely nervous for approval, only eleven years old himself. After all, he'd only been drawing for a short while, and for perhaps the first time in his life he'd found something challenging, something he couldn't just breeze through.

Art, he'd discovered, could not be charmed into submission, like all the people he'd met who easily fell to his childish, schoolboy charisma. Art had no care how stunning his smile was or how brightly captivating his eyes could be, nor could it be memorized like a list of facts, as could his schoolwork. Art spoke an entirely different language than anything else he'd come across, a language that took hours and hours of careful practice for him to even begin to learn.

So he was a little apprehensive that she wouldn't think his etchings any good – a rare moment of self-doubt.

But she'd just looked at the sketches, looked up at him with her big brown eyes, and said, "Why isn't there any color?"

Light had only stared at her for a moment; that hadn't been the reaction he'd been looking for.

Then he'd said, "Because I didn't want any." And he hadn't.

She'd accepted it, simply remarking, "Oh," and then going on to praise his skill with babbling enthusiasm, leaving Light to consider her words.

It had taken a few weeks, but eventually Light had asked his mother to enroll him in a community painting class, and she'd happily agreed.

He'd been the youngest in the class, not really sure he wanted to be there and with no experience in paint whatsoever to draw from, and he'd been easily frustrated by his own lack of skill. But he'd thrown himself into it, his zeal inspired by his hate of being bested by something, even inanimate objects such as paint and canvas, and in time he developed the skill necessary to control the paint how he wanted.

His technique, eventually, became excellent.

His creativity, however, was always somewhat lacking.

His painting teacher, a very emphatic old lady with expansive, wild hair that practically deserved its own time zone, was always hovering over his shoulder, filling his nose with sickly sweet perfume and urging him over and over to try painting "from the depths of his heart and soul!" – which Light had found palpably ridiculous. Why would he want to do something as weak and foolish-sounding as "painting his soul across the canvas"? A waste of time.

Light didn't make art to create something beautiful, or something aesthetically significant, or even as a means of personal expression. It wasn't the urge to _create_ that drove him, but the urge to _re-_create; he hadn't begun drawing to put a piece of his soul down on paper, but to put someone _else's_ soul down on paper, someone else's face. Art was just a tool, and he had no desire for it to become anything else.

But Light had smiled and said, "Of course, sensei," and rolled his eyes as she turned around to enthuse over another student's mediocre blot of paint, then he continued to hone his skills.

When the course was over, his teacher's parting words, spoken with one bony hand clutching his shoulder painfully, had been, "You handle a brush very well, Yagami-kun. It does exactly what you want. But it's meaningless if you don't put any heart in your work! It's not art without heart!"

Light had left with a vague feeling of prickling irritation and more than a little disgust. "_Not art without heart_" – that had to have been the corniest line he'd ever heard. Pathetic and needlessly sentimental. His heart was just fine, thanks very much, and didn't need to be splattered all over a canvas.

He'd spent a few days after that in a darkly disgruntled mood, snapping at everyone and anything and Sayu in particular. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to become master painter, anyway; he just didn't like some jumped up hippy who spoke with too many exclamation marks telling him what he could or couldn't do.

But his black mood eventually passed, and Light simply wrote the class off as a waste of time.

He didn't pick up a paintbrush again until a few months after starting high school. And then it was because he'd been overtaken by a rather compelling idea, one he couldn't get out of his head.

In all honesty, the idea had been insignificantly started: born from the mind-numbing boredom that chronically plagued him, which even his drawing had barely staved off; born from his own arrogance; and born from an idle curiosity about why a single painting could be sold for a fortune, merely because it was painted by a skilled artist who got lucky, usually after death.

In the end, paint was just paint, he thought. And styles could be learned and recreated.

And Light had had a lot of practice in recreating. After all, it was what he did each time he'd put a face on paper.

It had been surprisingly easy, once the brush was in his hand again, to learn how to paint in the style of another. The same way he'd already been learning to slip in and out of personalities and masks, he began to learn to slip in and out of painting styles, copying different artists' techniques and habits, and as he did so he found his own skill improving and maturing with a brush.

It was fun, too. Though Light had no desire to put his own emotions on canvas, he found it fascinatingly engaging to mimic and even perfect others'.

It was a game of pretend, and Light had always been good at those.

Right now, Light was caught up in another such game, under Ryuzaki's curious gaze as he spread his paint amateurishly across the canvas. It was difficult, this game of bluffed ineptitude - harder perhaps than bluffing skill - but Light had been faking painting styles for some time, and in a way, bad painting was just another style.

And if that wasn't enough he had another ace up his sleeve, so to speak, which he felt confident would disguise his skill enough to not arouse Ryuzaki's suspicion.

He had forgotten how eerily observant Ryuzaki had turned out to be.

"You paint with your right hand."

Light, in the middle of painting a boring, mediocre backdrop of the sky and the sea, merely rewetted his brush in the mixed blob of paint taking up a third of his palette.

"Very good, Ryuzaki; you didn't even need to make an 'L' with your left hand to check."

Ryuzaki shifted quietly, pulling his knees closer to his body. "That 'L for left' trick only works if the person is familiar with English."

"I'm working on the assumption here that you at least are familiar with English," Light said, pressing the brush a little too hard against the canvas as he made a brushstroke of a wave crest, "though I suspect you are actually fluent in English, if it is not in fact your first language. Obviously," he added, throwing a short glance over at him, grinning, "since you understood what I was referring to, I was right. And yes, by the way, I am right-handed, so it makes sense I'd paint with my right hand."

There was a brief silence, while Light's brush swept along another rolling wave and he hoped Ryuzaki left the matter at that; then Ryuzaki spoke again.

"Last week, you drew with your left hand."

Light's hand didn't falter, though his heart involuntarily tripped and stumbled a few beats in his chest. After only a moment's pause, he shot a grin over at where Ryuzaki was watching him carefully with dark, interested eyes.

"You really are observant, aren't you? Well, Inigo, are you going to ask me if I killed your father, since we seem to have missed that bit, or should we skip right to the part where I clonk you over the head with my sword hilt? I mean, paintbrush."

Ryuzaki just shook his head, though his lips quirked a little in amusement at the blatant film reference as Light casually resumed his right-handed painting. "That will not be necessary, I think. A simple explanation will suffice. I find myself a little confused, you see. It seems to me that, even if you were ambidextrous, drawing and painting are similar enough that they would be done with the same hand, though I admit I know very little of art." There was a small wrinkle in Ryuzaki's brow as he spoke, which Light was finding a little more adorable than strictly necessary for the situation. Ryuzaki was cute when he was confused.

But this really wasn't the time for thoughts like that.

"You'd think it'd be that way, huh?" Light laughed, swirling his paintbrush into the water, creating a mini whirlpool in the goblet, then blotting it dry on the cloth. "It's because during the summer after my first year of high school I broke my right elbow. While I was in a cast I got really, incredibly bored, so I taught myself how to draw with my left hand. I'm not naturally ambidextrous, but with practice it was easy enough to train myself to draw that way. When the cast came off, I ended up liking my left-handed drawing better than my right, so I just kept it up. I do everything else with my right because that's what I'm used to."

This story was perfectly true. Except for the fact that, in addition to drawing, Light had also taught himself to paint left-handed, for the express purpose of redefining his style with a brush. The improvement in his drawing skill, a result of the effort put into reteaching himself the basics and, in a sense, restarting from scratch, had just been an unexpected plus.

And then there was the fact that he was currently painting with his right hand because it wasn't as skilled at painting as his left, and he was trying to make Ryuzaki think he wasn't any good with a brush. That bit he also left out.

Ryuzaki's brow furrowed a little deeper. "That seems very complicated."

Light shrugged, beginning the base of an uncreative lighthouse in the foreground of the canvas. "Not really. I draw with my left, do everything else with my right – not much mystery to it."

"I suppose so," Ryuzaki said, giving a grudgingly satisfied nod, his frown clearing. "I guess that does make sense."

Light gave an inward sigh of relief – not that he really thought he had to worry about Ryuzaki's curiosity. It wasn't like the guy was a cop or anything. But still, even this small, harmless interrogation had got his heart thumping a bit harder against his ribs, and he'd found it oddly invigorating, watching his crafted lies wrap around Ryuzaki's eyes and pull him to a conclusion of distorted half-truth.

Ryuzaki's curiosity satisfied, Light was soon absorbed in his task again, drawn into the world of paint and deceit, and before he knew it half an hour had easily flown by, mostly unnoticed. He stepped back to take stock of his work.

It wasn't bad, he decided, wiping his fingertips on the corner of the cloth, keeping a smile from his face.

Well no, actually – it was bad. But that was kind of the point.

It was a well-done bad.

At that moment, Ryuzaki's voice surprised him by speaking right behind his ear.

"Interesting," it hummed musingly, and Light only jumped a little in surprise. "You weren't lying – you really aren't very good. I had supposed you were merely being falsely modest."

Light was caught in a strange tug-of-war of irritation at the heavily implied insult and pride that his plan had worked so seamlessly, the whole mess just further complicated by a shiver of pleasure that danced up his spine, unrelated to anything but the cool breath caressing his ear. Unsure whether to be angry or pleased or just horny, he settled for dropping his paintbrush onto the easel and beginning to study his tapered fingers for any clingy, possessive paint.

Finding none, he glanced briefly over his shoulder to give Ryuzaki a silken smile.

"Are you satisfied, then? I warned you it would be boring – are you content to have found something I fail at?"

Ryuzaki roved his eyes over the painting, his thumb at his lips.

"I wouldn't say you failed. While the painting is certainly not exceptionally skilled, it isn't horrible either. How interesting. I honestly hadn't believed there was something you couldn't do well - irrational, I realize of course." His breath whispered along Light's neck, like a phantom's touch, his words light and intrigued. "And it wasn't boring at all. It was actually quite fascinating. Do you know you sometimes bite your tongue when you're concentrating?" His finger very softly brushed against Light's cheek, as though Light wouldn't have been able to identify where his tongue was kept otherwise.

And yes, Light knew he did that. He'd picked the habit up purposefully, because it was practically impossible for someone to tell when he was doing it (he didn't chew - just one small, continuous bite - and his mouth always stayed closed while doing it), and he'd needed something to substitute his much more noticeable tendency of gnawing at his lip. This was the first time in the seven years since he'd started doing it that someone had even noticed.

"I guess I do," was all he said, however, dismissing and unconcerned.

It was a small matter, he supposed, of no real significance if Ryuzaki noticed or not, but still Light found himself beginning to feel a little unbalanced as he realized Ryuzaki once again had proven considerably more observant than he'd previously accounted for. He really was much better at seeing through him than anyone Light had yet come across, and Light wasn't entirely sure what to think about it.

It was…unsettling. It was strange and challenging and maybe a bit worrying, and it was something Light wasn't used to.

But mostly, it was pretty damn exhilarating. And in a twisted, illogical way, it kind of made him want to fuck.

He was vividly aware that his blood was slowly beginning to hum with excitement and adrenaline and the intoxicating presence of Ryuzaki right behind him, his fingers beginning to coil in anticipation and flames beginning to lick the edges of his mind, and he couldn't keep a curling smile from his lips.

Suddenly, Light was done painting, done with the careful games of words and smiles and hidden skill – fun as that had been – and all he wanted now was to be swept along by the fire overtaking his veins. All he wanted now was for something fast and hard and thrilling and consuming, a little bit breathless and a lot bit dirty, and he really hoped for Ryuzaki's sake that he wanted that just as much, because Light really wasn't in the mood to be patient at the moment.

Or subtle.

What it was about Ryuzaki that made him so different from anyone Light had ever encountered, Light hadn't quite figured out all the way yet, but whatever it was it kicked his hormones all over the place and sent his blood coursing urgently through his body, so Ryuzaki would just have to take responsibility.

Twisting around quickly to face Ryuzaki full on, he let his fingers curl around the sides of that irritatingly wrinkly white shirt and, with just a brief, elated smirk for a warning, yanked him in close and latched onto his mouth, doing his best to chew and suck his bottom lip right off his stubborn face. And Ryuzaki gave a funny little gasp-moan of surprised pleasure – clearly not having expected such a direct attack so quickly – that just made Light want to push him to the ground, climb on top and eat every last inch of him, like a panther to a carefully stalked prey, so he decided to do just that.

"Stupid, irritating bastard," Light grinned breathily against Ryuzaki's mouth, and before his brain could catch up Light shoved him hard enough to send him stumbling down to the thin, chic carpet – hard enough to give him no time to catch his balance. At the last moment, however, Ryuzaki's hand managed to clutch around his arm, and by a firm grasp Light was pulled tumbling along down as well.

This time it was Light's disoriented brain that needed time to catch up, and when it did he found himself turned around and trapped beneath Ryuzaki's surprisingly powerful body – it was lean and wiry but he knew how to use what he had – with Ryuzaki going at his neck at a maddeningly leisurely pace.

With sharp nips and hot breath, he ate his way up to Light's ear and said breathlessly, "Awfully enthusiastic suddenly, aren't you?"

Light focused all his power in his upper body and, with a concentrated shove, managed to toss Ryuzaki off of him enough to roll him over and clamber on top with a sleek, feral grin.

"Shut up." He dug the fingers of both his hands deep into Ryuzaki's hair, his face close enough to feel Ryuzaki's hot breath brushing against his cheek. "I'm still a teenager – I'm allowed to be horny once in a while."

Ryuzaki grinned back up at him, not wincing even as Light tugged roughly at his roots. "I'm not complaining."

Then he wrapped one hand tightly around into Light's hair as well and yanked him downwards until their lips connected in a storm of breath-stealing delight and shared, uncontrolled desire, and the flames of passion greedily consumed them both.

* * *

><p>Hours later, after fervor had calmed and volcano-hot blood slowed to a contented purr in their veins, Ryuzaki and Light lay together on the floor, practically engulfed in a soft fur rug beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows on the west wall.<p>

Stretched comfortably out on his stomach like a dozing cat, his lower half covered by a thin blanket Ryuzaki had fetched him (for once behaving as a host, rather than a spoiled billionaire) as a sort of absentminded nod to modesty, Light was feeling pleasantly drowsy, slinking on the fringes of sleep. To his right, Ryuzaki was stretched out equally comfortably on his back, staring up at the ceiling and half-concealed in shadows; and to his left, the city was spread out beneath him, its lights hungrily swallowing up any sight of the stars above.

"Light-kun, you are a student at To-Oh University, correct?" Ryuzaki's voice slipped out through the semi-darkness, low and relaxing like the gentle pull of the tide, and Light's eyes fluttered in an attempt to stay open.

"Mm-hm," he hummed quietly, tired and content.

"What is your major?"

"Mm…psychology. Why?"

"You wish to become a psychologist?" Ryuzaki continued quietly, ignoring Light's question. "Not something to do with your art?"

Light lifted his head and propped himself up on his elbows to watch how the tentative light from the moon caught the landscape of Ryuzaki's pale face, illuminating the planes and obscuring the valleys.

"No to both, actually," he answered without a thought, his voice, like Ryuzaki's, never getting above a low, calming hush. "Drawing's more of a hobby than anything – not much to do with it career-wise. What I actually want to do is become a university professor and teach psychology. Why do you ask?"

In the darkness, Light could see Ryuzaki's eyes gleam as they rolled up at him.

"Simple curiosity, Light-kun. Why do you wish to become a teacher? It seems a rather…unexpected career course for you."

Light grinned a lazily wicked smile down at the man by his side. "A philanthropist desire to help others along the way on their quest for knowledge, of course. Why else?"

"Somehow, I find that a very unlikely motivation."

Light gave a soft, breathy chuckle, and Ryuzaki's pale lips curved upwards in quiet amusement.

"My father believed that reason. Are you suggesting that, after two days spent together, you know me better than my own parent? That's cocky."

Ryuzaki pulled his finger up to his mouth and began nibbling, a habit Light was quickly getting used to seeing. "Your father – while an excellent man, I am sure – has undoubtedly been blinded by his own paternal love to see your true arrogant nature," Ryuzaki stated quietly. "An understandable oversight. I, on the other hand, a stranger-"

"Nnhn…I think we're a little more intimately acquainted than most strangers, Ryuzaki."

"-a recently met acquaintance who has engaged in sexual activities with you on two separate occasions-"

"Just call it fucking."

"Light-kun," Ryuzaki said sternly, glaring up at him in semi-mock reprimand. "If you persist in interrupting me with insignificant corrections, I will never be able to get to the point." Light grinned, and Ryuzaki continued with an answering twitch of his own lips. "As I was saying – I, as someone not as emotionally involved with you and therefore less likely to allow my feelings to cloud my judgment, am more able to see through to your true temperament. For instance, I would feel ninety-five percent confident in saying that one of the reasons you are drawn to teaching is because you enjoy a sense of power and authority – a motivation I doubt would ever occur to your father. Nor do I think he would consider a love of hearing yourself talk, which I find a viable reason as well."

Light had settled his head back into his arms halfway through L's speech, too drowsy to keep it upright any longer. "Maybe that's because my father isn't a complete dick with no tact," he suggested, punctuating the statement with a small yawn. "Unlike you. You're a…wordy, pretentious ass, too."

Ryuzaki laughed quietly. "I notice, despite your attempt to distract me with uncreative insults, that you have not denied the truth of my proffered reasons."

"Mm…good noticing…" Light's eyes were drifting shut, but he heard Ryuzaki shifting on the rug beside him.

"Are you falling asleep?" Ryuzaki asked after a silent moment, his voice soft and soothing as it washed over Light in a gentle wave.

"Nhnn…"

"That is not an answer."

"…Your voice is very soothing."

"That, while very flattering, is not an answer either."

"It's putting me to sleep." Light was aware his tongue was becoming a little thick and his words a little muddled, but it was very pleasant to lie there and listen to the calming rumble of Ryuzaki's voice and simply allow sleep to gradually steal him away, so he didn't concern himself with bothering to care.

For a few, unhurried minutes, the only sound was the gentle hush of their own breathing, then Ryuzaki spoke again, quietly and thoughtfully.

"What does your father do, Light-kun? You mentioned him at dinner."

Light yawned softly again before answering. "Works in the NPA."

Ryuzaki hummed in understanding. "I see. In that case, is there any need for me to worry about an angry police officer kicking down my door, shotgun in hand, and demanding I make an honest woman out of you?"

Light chuckled drowsily. "I doubt it. My dad doesn't know 'm gay… Thinks I'm dating a foreign girl, Mel. Hmm…probably ought to tell 'em we broke up…" he mumbled, the last bit mostly to himself.

"You broke up with a fictional girlfriend?"

"Broke up with Mello…the guy I was dating." Light's eyes drifted open a slit, and through the fingers of his lashes he saw Ryuzaki's face staring into his own. He smiled, a sleepy grin tiptoeing to his lips. "You get awfully curious late at night, don't you Ryuzaki?"

Ryuzaki's night-black eyes seemed to study him carefully. "Perhaps I'm just always curious."

With a small chuckle that was more of a breathy exhale than anything, Light burrowed back into his arms let his eyes gently close once again.

"You're really strange, Ryuzaki," he said, feeling his own breath brush along his arms. "I've never met anyone like you."

Ryuzaki was silent, though his hand came up to tentatively brush one finger through his hair, and a few breaths later Light was asleep.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Long chapter. Sorry.<em>

_Concerning the right hand/left hand painting issue: this is not completely bogus. I realize it's rather convenient for the sake of the story and for throwing in a random Princess Bride reference, but Light's trained ambidexterity is actually based on the experience of an uncle of mine. He's a painter, and in his early thirties he suffered a stroke which took away his ability to control his right hand well enough to paint. He then re-taught himself to paint with his left hand, and in my opinion his work has been of a markedly higher quality since then – which may have less do with the switch of hands and more to do with his brain getting changed around after the stroke, but whatever. In any case, it __**is**__ possible for some people to be just as good or better with a non-dominant hand, so I'm not just pulling that out of the air. And hey – convenient Princess Bride reference, right? Don't question it; just enjoy it._

_Wallington = Wammy's alias when L is going by Ryuzaki, in case you missed that. I figured he couldn't really use 'Watari', since that's the name the police are familiar with. Don't know if Wallington does the guy justice, but I couldn't find any other canon aliases he used. Forgive me, Watari._

_Also, the pool-turned-subwoofer reference is Larry Ellison, for the curious._

_And on a random note…it's my birthday today! Ha ha ha…er, yeah. So, if you were, say, in a fit of madness, perhaps, to randomly get the sudden urge to celebrate or something bizarre like that, a review would be acceptable. I'm just __saying__._

_Okay, okay – ignore me and my lack of class. Thanks for reading._

_Oh, and I was listening to the old Pink Panther soundtrack while writing part of this chapter, so if you suddenly find yourself feeling particularly badass and sexy after reading, maybe with the urge to slink around town in a pair of shades and a trench coat, that's why. You're welcome._


	10. Pastries and Hostility

**Chapter Ten**

_Pastries and Hostility_

* * *

><p>L awoke abruptly, muddled and disconcerted.<p>

Audacious sunlight was streaming through the windows, dancing across his face and charging a direct attack against his eyes. The muted sounds of the city could be heard far below the cracked-open window, as the city-dwellers grudgingly set out for another day on the corporate battlefield. In short, L concluded it was morning, when the world gritted its teeth and began another grueling day, another mindless battle of the mundane.

L was hardly ever bothered by the mundane. His concerns were of a different sort than the average human, his professional battles much more significant – and, dare he say, epic – than those found in the everyday life of a nine-to-fiver.

But even he couldn't avoid the arrogant morning sunlight, brazenly challenging his eyes' rest.

Well. Unless he closed the curtains. But that was entirely too much work.

Instead, he focused on glaring at the sunlight fiercely, scowling with all the intimidation he could muster in his sleep-addled state, but it seemed it was made of too stern of stuff to be scared off so easily by the likes of a half-awake L.

The nerve of it.

He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes screwing shut and his head trying to duck away from the sun's bold gaze, and he discovered that, curled up beside him and nuzzled a little into his chest, there was a body sleeping soundly.

Ah, L remembered now. Light was there.

How very strange. That was twice now L had slept in the presence of a relative stranger. Through the night, too.

Sex was obviously good for his insomnia.

Then the sunlight somehow managed to find his gaze again, too bright and brilliant for his eyes, and L scrunched his eyes together in annoyance.

Sun…Light…

No, it was too early in the morning for bad puns and analogies, especially since Light wasn't awake to appreciate them.

Rubbing groggily at his eyes with a spindly finger, L eyed the Light beside him that was much more audacious and cunningly invasive than the one in the sky, and he wondered how many times Light had been gushingly compared to the sun by an enthusiastic boyfriend.

He wondered how long after that Light dumped them.

He wondered how many of them had once sat just like he was now, watching as Light's chest rose and fell in the unhurried tempo of sleep, as his breath parted his lips and curled into the morning air.

And he wondered when his brain was going to wake up, because this sort of jumbled, disjointed thinking was rather pointless and not like L at all. His brain still felt like it was miles away, wrapped up somewhere in a thick cloud, and he was very aware that it wasn't working at its usual razor sharpness. And he did not appreciate it.

Instead of wasting his mental energy on senseless curiosity over Light's former romantic ventures, he decided to turn his attention to more pressing matters.

Such as what time it was.

The clock on wall told him it was a little before nine o'clock, and L was inclined to believe it.

Good. Two-thirds of his successors would currently be slammed with twelve-hour-flight recovery and jet lag (Mello especially reacted badly to long flights, as he got rather stir-crazy), and the other third was aware to keep a certain blond from bothering him. There was no danger of being burst in on, so it would most likely be safe to unbolt the door for Watari to bring them breakfast.

Breakfast was good. Breakfast involved sugar, and sugar got his brain up and kicking as fast as sleep got it muddled and disorderly.

Untangling his legs from the blanket and Light from his torso, L gingerly climbed to his feet, searching around for some sort of clothing to put on his naked lower half. Not that he cared, but he supposed it would be awkward for Watari otherwise. He tried to be considerate of others whenever possible.

Hah. No, actually – he wasn't terribly fussed with the notion. But it was Watari and Watari had direct control over his cake supply, and it was easy enough to stick a pair of pants on, he supposed.

He found his jeans hiding in the bathroom – he couldn't exactly recall just how they'd ended up there – and uncoordinatedly tried to shove his legs into them, feeling like a drunken sailor on shore leave. All right, maybe it wasn't so easy to stick a pair of pants on, but L wasn't the sort to be bested by an article of inanimate clothing.

Once his jeans had been wrestled into submission and his even-more-wrinkly-than-before shirt tossed on for good measure, L wandered over to the door and clicked the bolt open.

Now, to find his phone.

It was no longer in his pocket with his other phone, which meant it had tumbled out at some point during the proceedings last night. Which was rather irresponsibly dangerous of him, to leave his L phone just lying around – the sort of mistake amateurs made, not L.

Unless, of course, he was caught in the middle of some brain-shanghaiing sex. Then it was excusable.

After several minutes of nose-to-the-floor searching, he found it beneath the chair beside Light's easel. Pausing, he took a minute to examine the painting in the natural morning light – it really wasn't any better than when under the electric light of yesterday – then flicked his phone open and dialed Watari's number.

After two rings, Watari answered.

"_Sir?"_

"Breakfast," L directed, still too bleary for more than one-word sentences.

"_I have it prepared, sir."_

"Good," he grunted, shaking a hand through shaggy, messy hair, and he wondered if Light ever felt this brain-jumbled in the morning.

Somehow, he doubted it. But he would certainly enjoy seeing it.

"_When would you like it served?"_

"Fifteen minutes," he said next, managing two words this time and taking it as a promising sign.

"_Very well. I will be there in fifteen minutes."_

L snapped his phone shut and tried ordering his brain to snap on with the same ease, but he found mental clarity wasn't quite as obliging to bend to his whims.

This was precisely why L did not like sleeping 'like a regular human being', as Watari liked to phrase it when he was feeling particularly fed up with L's irregular sleeping patterns. The fuzzy brain, the heavy, clumsy tongue, the blurred lines of reasoning – he found nothing to appreciate in any of it. He very much preferred to take short, concentrated naps during the day, because he always awoke from those refreshed and with all system's firing, rather than feeling like a college student waking up with his first hangover after leaving home.

'Cat-napping', Mello had laughingly called it once when they were on a case in Africa, after walking in on L dozing with his head nestled on his own knees. He'd then ruffled L's hair and jokingly asked him to give a purr, little kitty. Two days later, the blond had found himself waking up against a particularly-infested termite mound four hours away from any civilization, with a map stuck in his pocket and a note instructing him to 'enjoy his survival training and watch out for the jungle kitties'.

It hadn't been revenge; survival training really was an important part of his underlings' training.

The revenge was just a nice secondary effect.

Light, L thought in a strange jump of thought that made perfect sense to his brain as it was at the moment, would have appreciated this logic. And the irony of the mention of 'kitties' left in the helpful note tucked next to the map – Light probably would have appreciated that.

And the jungle cats themselves. Sleek, deadly, elegant – it seemed the sort of animal Light would have an affinity for.

Light was kind of a like a cat himself.

He certainly looked the part at the moment, stretched out beneath the gentle warmth of his namesake, like a dozing feline in a strip of sunlight. And the sunlight certainly seemed to like him better than it liked L; all its former hostility and battle-lust was gone, and instead it wrapped around the sleeping body like a lover's embrace.

Well that was just too bad for it. L was Light's lover at the moment, and he felt confident he could win out in any challenge it laid down. Sunlight might have had the edge in the age and heat department, but L had a dick. That, he felt, trumped anything the sun could have whipped out.

L realized then, with a vague sort of horror, that he was currently engaged in some kind of twisted pissing contest with _sunlight_, and he decided it was definitely time to find a better mental occupation.

Like figuring out why he had thought the word 'lover' in relation to him and Light. That had been strange. L and Light weren't exactly lovers, nor did L want them to be. Light was just an interesting, unusual person L happened to be sleeping with at the moment and who happened to react in fascinating ways when L provoked him. And he'd like to continue with the sex and provoking, thank you very much, so he'd appreciate it if messy words like 'lover' would stay out of his brain when it was tired and had its defenses down. That wasn't very sporting to attack while his logic was still asleep.

This was Light's fault – L felt sure of it. It was because of the sneakily affectionate way he had drifted off to sleep last night tucked against L's body, content and unconcerned about exposing a little vulnerability by falling asleep right in front of someone's eyes, and it was messing around with L's head.

That was all it was, L decided, feeling his logic returning to him gradually. It hadn't been attachment he'd felt, but pseudo-attachment. Obviously, he was unaccustomed to such emotional intimacy, even slight as it was, so when encountering it for the first time it would naturally throw him for a bit of a loop. It was just a reaction to spending time with someone who actually managed to intrigue his intellectual interest, combined with the chemical reaction that occurred when initiating physical intimacy with a new person. It wasn't real.

It was basic psychology. Light was like a shiny new toy, and L was well aware how childishly possessive he was of his toys, until the novelty ended and his interest ran out, the shine dulled. There was nothing surprising about the fact that L might have thought he'd felt a bit of disconcerting affection for Light, in such circumstances. Only natural.

But not real. Nothing to worry about.

And now that L had figured out why his brain had fancied him to be Light's lover and overall had been a little too inclined to regard Light with fondness or affection, he could lay the matter to rest and return to his usual logic-ruled mindset, at ease with having solved the question and knowing he hadn't really been affected so easily.

He really hated sleeping through the night. It always took his logic much longer to wake up than the rest of him. No wonder he'd been so confused for a moment.

With one last glance at Light's sleeping form, embraced by the morning light like some sort of misplaced angel still surrounded by heaven's lingering adoration, L gave the unsettling matter a mental checkmark and let it fade from his mind, solved and untangled by reason, then he shuffled sleepily into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

It was the one part of his hygiene on which he bothered to make more than a half-assed effort. The last (and only) time L had gotten a cavity, Watari had banned him from sugar for a week, so L was always very careful to avoid the necessity for such stringent measures again. Though he really felt, at the age of twenty-five, he had passed the point when Watari could reasonably ban him from anything.

But then, if L decided to declare his dental independence in some sort of foolish, belated teenage rebellion, Watari would probably say in that case, L was old enough to be going out and buying his own cake all the time. Parental figures were tricky that way.

And speaking of tricky…

As soon as L was done rubbing disgusting paste all over his teeth (this new brand wasn't too bad actually – it made a decent attempt at strawberry, and L saw no reason to be bothered by the fact it was intended for children), he wanted another look at that painting propped up in the middle of the sitting room.

Perhaps it was just his childish nature and stubborn dislike of being wrong speaking, but L wasn't entirely ready to concede that Light really was only mediocre at something. He had nothing but his gut feeling to go on, but he and his gut were good friends and he tended to trust its judgment when it spoke up.

Or, it could be indigestion. That was a viable danger when one trusted one's gut.

Either way, L was only mildly curious about the matter. There wasn't much about the topic of painting or art that could hold his interest, which had only been caught right now because it was Light, and Light tended to be interesting in general, even when doing something as mundane as making a pot of tea or smearing pigments and chemicals across a piece of fabric.

And once L had encountered everything of interest Light could throw at him, once boredom began to set in again, he would be just fine dropping Light from his life and finding something else to catch his interest. It was how it always went in L's life, both in personal matters (which were few and far between) and in professional matters (which practically consumed L's life).

Criminals were interesting – the smart ones, at least, who could pose some sort of challenge and relief from the unbearable stupidity that seemed to inflict the majority of the criminal class. L would focus all his considerable attention and mental powers on the chase, on solving the puzzle. But once the criminal was caught and the puzzle completed, his interest died with the suddenness of a heart attack. The criminal had allowed himself to be caught and defeated, and when that happened L had no more use for them – they were just another checkmark of a completed riddle, and L was ready for another challenge.

Puzzles were only interesting until they were completed.

And it would undoubtedly be the same way with Light. Light just happened to have more about him that was interesting the average human being L encountered, an unusual configuration of a puzzle that was more complicated and engaging than most.

And he was really good in bed.

That was a rather important point.

L spat decisively into the sink, feeling this particular thought process was completed to all possible satisfaction. It was time for another puzzle to ponder over – namely, the one dozing in the other room, and by association, the one resting on the easel just a few paces away.

And L felt safe in the knowledge that logically, there was no reason to feel affection or attachment to a puzzle. It was just a puzzle, a mental distraction.

It was nice to have his brain working again.

* * *

><p>When Light awoke, he was alone in bed.<p>

Not that it was a problem, or even unusual; he preferred it that way. Even when dating someone, he disliked waking with someone else's morning breath on his face and someone else's limbs in his way, so if his partner was a particularly invasive sleeper he more often than not either kicked them out of bed or left himself after they were done fucking.

Mello had been okay. Ryuzaki was okay.

But Light was gradually becoming aware, as alertness returned to him and the real world faded back into being, that he wasn't exactly in a bed at the moment.

Nor, for that matter, was he alone.

"Ah, Light-kun, you're awake."

Definitely not alone.

Light sat up, shaking the last clinging remnants of sleep from his brain and breathing in his current surroundings, and the thin grey blanket that had been resting contently against his chest slipped lazily down to settle on his lap. Across the room, Ryuzaki's black eyes met his.

"Why am I on the floor?"

That was a stupid question, and Light immediately regretted asking it. Of course he remembered slipping away to sleep last night on the rug next to Ryuzaki, but he kept his gaze free from any sign of regret at the unnecessary question and dared Ryuzaki to call him on it.

And of course he did.

"I would imagine it is because that is where you fell asleep last night, Light-kun," Ryuzaki stated, unfolding himself from the sofa he'd been crouched on and strolling over to gaze down at Light. "That tends to happen to most people, I believe – waking where they fell asleep. Is your brain perhaps still asleep?" The question was asked quite courteously and with a masterful touch of concern in Ryuzaki's voice, but the teasing and blatant implication that _he_, unlike Light, never woke in any manner but instantly clear-minded and logical did not escape Light.

He glared haughtily up at the man standing above him.

"Ass," he said, as he extended an imperious hand up towards him. "Help me up."

Ryuzaki regarded the hand carefully.

"There is an eighty-one percent chance that you intend to take childish revenge for my innocent observation by pulling me to the floor if I oblige you in helping you up."

Light hooked a foot around Ryuzaki's ankle and yanked hard, sending the man crashing backwards to the floor, his wild mess of black hair making the effect particularly interesting to watch as he flew down. Then, gracefully and smoothly and with an irrepressible smile, Light got to his feet, unconcerned with his nakedness as the blanket slipped down his legs to puddle around his feet on the floor.

"Actually," he said helpfully, "I was distracting you so you wouldn't be paying attention to my feet. Interesting how that worked, isn't it?"

He felt like chuckling like a mischievous schoolboy when he saw Ryuzaki's face scrunched up in a scowl beneath the thick strands of hair that had flopped down into his eyes (though the scowl got a little sidetracked when Ryuzaki noticed his not-exactly-clothed state), but Light kept his triumph subdued and dignified despite this urge and merely tracked down his underwear, slipping them smoothly up his legs and around his hips.

In hindsight, he really should have expected retaliation. So, in hindsight, he really shouldn't have looked away from Ryuzaki.

But hindsight wasn't exactly of much use to him once Ryuzaki had already sneaked up from just beyond his peripheral and dive-tackled him the instant he turned around, pinning him to floor.

Light couldn't help grinning up at him, despite his aching back and shoulders and knee, all of which Ryuzaki had banged on the way down, and he didn't bother trying to free his wrists from where they were captured next to his head.

"Now who's getting childish revenge?"

Ryuzaki smiled, a tiny whisper of a smile that barely reached the corners of his lips, his eyes calm and assertive.

"That would be me, Light-kun."

"That doesn't sound very apologetic."

"It wasn't."

Light chuckled and breathed Ryuzaki's breath into his own lungs (he was unsurprised to discover he used strawberry-flavored toothpaste), his hips very aware of Ryuzaki's bony knees on either side of them.

"Right, you've got your revenge for letting yourself get tricked," Light smirked quietly. "Get up, I need to finish getting dressed."

"That seems entirely unnecessary at the moment," Ryuzaki protested with a mock-serious frown, and Light let out another silvery chuckle.

It was enjoyable, feeling Ryuzaki's body hovering over his own, watching as those black eyes gradually began to flicker down to his lips, as the playful tension between them started slowly evolving, changing into something quiet and electric.

And just when faces were pulling irresistibly closer, lips about to meet, eyes drifting shut, the moment was broken by a subtle cough to Light's left. Startled, Ryuzaki and Light turned their heads as one to find Ryuzaki's employee/chauffeur/butler (what the hell was he, anyway?) standing politely in the doorway, a tray in his gloved hands.

"Ah, Wallington," Ryuzaki said, not sounding the least bit embarrassed to be found pinning a half-naked man to ground. "Excellent. Please set the food in the kitchen."

Wallington, clearly a longsuffering individual, nodded and turned on his heel to stride with unruffled dignity and an unhurried gait towards the kitchen, and when Ryuzaki turned back to Light with the obvious intent to pick up where they'd left off, Light shoved him away and stood, his hands flitting up to smooth down his hair.

Like hell he was going to let Ryuzaki make-out with him when his butler was twenty paces away, even twenty paces away in another room. That sort of thing lacked class.

"Pants?" he said shortly, glancing around the room.

"Behind the lamp," Ryuzaki answered glumly, a disappointed frown pulling at his mouth.

"Right." Light nodded and briskly located his pants from where they had wrapped around behind the slim floor lamp, pulling them on leg by leg and buttoning them with stern look at Ryuzaki, who was inching closer with resilient desire stubbornly apparent in his face. "Breakfast?" he said in a quelling tone.

Ryuzaki stopped inching and nodded in grudging agreement, so Light sauntered determinedly towards the kitchen, pausing only to snatch up his wrinkled, _expensive_ button-up shirt from the middle of the floor (Ryuzaki would be paying for his launder bill, the horny bastard) and slip it on his arms and shoulders.

As he crossed the threshold of the kitchen, Ryuzaki trailing along behind like a scolded puppy, he was instantly greeted by the welcome scent of warm food, already set carefully out on the table by Wallington, who was now in the corner inconspicuously preparing tea.

Light wondered where he could find one of these employees/chauffeurs/butlers/whatever the hell he was, because it seemed a very convenient set-up. And Ryuzaki, the spoiled ass, probably took it for granted.

Definitely took it for granted, Light amended, as Ryuzaki brushed past him to shuffle over to the table and shove a bite of what Light guessed was a pear, maybe apple Danish pastry into his mouth.

Ryuzaki turned wide, innocent eyes on him, licking his fingers clean.

"Danish?" he offered, his gaze showing he knew perfectly well Light didn't want something so sweet that early in the morning.

"I have prepared an omelet for you, sir," Wallington cut in, with a nod towards the plate next to Ryuzaki's dessert-breakfast. "Is this acceptable?"

Light smiled graciously, nodding and stepping over to slip into the chair opposite where Ryuzaki was now crouching as he licked at the glaze of his pastry. "Of course. Thank you very much, uh – Wallington, was it?"

Wallington nodded, about to respond, but before the words could present themselves Ryuzaki broke in, interrupting the polite exchange.

"Yes, this is Wallington. You may turn off the insta-charm, Light-kun; there's no need to impress anyone with your trained manners at the moment. He's already seen you in your skivvies, after all."

Light's right hand, the one holding his rather sharp multipurpose fork (some of those purposes having more violent applications than others), twitched slightly, but Light just smiled with a viper's charm at Ryuzaki.

"May I have a Danish, Ryuzaki?"

Black eyes darted towards his, the mouth below busy devouring another bite of pastry, like an unusually dainty wolf.

"I thought you didn't want one, Light-kun."

"Changed my mind," Light threw back, his voice pleasant and polite, his smile on the edge of smirking but maintaining his mask of civility. "Is it all right? You offered me one just barely, didn't you? And you have six – I'd just like one."

Ryuzaki glanced down at his plate as though to ascertain he really did have that obscene number of pastries, though his face seemed to indicate he thought the amount more stingy than obscene, then he glanced back up at Light.

"You've made your point," he said curtly. "Consider your revenge for the skivvies comment exacted. There is no need to take this further."

Light's smile didn't fade a millimeter. "Revenge? I just would like a Danish. The blueberry looks nice."

"It's blackberry," Ryuzaki stated automatically, eyeing Light with a frown blacker than the pastry's filling. "And it's my third favorite."

"That cherry's fine, then."

"Fourth favorite."

Light nodded in agreeable understanding, examining the rest of the plate thoughtfully. "Well I don't want that yellow one, you've already started into it. How about a strawberry, then? You have three of those."

"I am sure you are capable of deducing that I have three because it is my most favorite flavor. You may drop the matter now, Light-kun. As I said, you've made your point."

Ryuzaki was looking so much like a stubborn child Light couldn't help but grin, and he was determined now to get a Danish out of Ryuzaki's possessive grasp – not just as revenge, but also because it was simply too much fun not to.

"How about half the cherry and the half of the yellow one, the side you haven't touched yet. That way you'll still get a taste of all of them," he suggested. "That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

"Were you to actually desire a Danish, it would sound reasonable," Ryuzaki corrected with an uncompromising glance up at Light. "As I know you don't actually want one, any situation in which you receive a Danish or part of a Danish is unreasonable."

"But I do want a Danish." Light was smirking now, not attempting to stop it. "Are you saying I'm lying?"

"Yes," Ryuzaki said promptly. "That is precisely what I'm saying."

"Then, since I'm lying – hypothetically – I shouldn't be allowed a Danish?" Light clarified.

"Exactly," Ryuzaki nodded, sounding pleased Light had understood so quickly. "Lying shouldn't be rewarded, so eat your omelet." He turned to his own plate, clearly thinking the conversation over, but Light wasn't finished.

"You also lied, though," he reasoned, his eyes sly as Ryuzaki glanced up to him in mild surprise, "when you offered me a Danish but clearly didn't have the true intent to give me one. So what's _your_ consequence for lying?"

A smile began to quirk one side of Ryuzaki's mouth. "Listening to you attempting to wheedle me out of my breakfast," he returned without hesitation, his eyes a challenging _your turn, Light-kun._

Light smirked back. He wasn't sure why he was pushing this playful debate; it felt more fitting for Ryuzaki to be the one instigating such childish inanity, not him. But twisted games of logic and rhetoric were fun when he had an opponent worth his time, even when the rhetoric concerned a bit of flaky dough and sugary jam Light would rather throw out a window than put in his mouth.

And Ryuzaki still needed to be taken down a couple pegs after the skivvies remark. Light wasn't the sort to let something like that pass by without retaliation.

"That would be a valid point," he conceded, cutting himself a bite of omelet with firm slice of his fork, "_if_ it were actually a negative thing to listen to me talk. But since you were the one to invite me here, you obviously enjoy my company – if you didn't, you wouldn't be feeding me breakfast. So, 'listening to me wheedle' doesn't count as a negative consequence, which means you either need to find another consequence for lying or hand over a Danish." He slipped the bite triumphantly into his mouth, chewing the spongy egg with relish and lifting a challenging brow at Ryuzaki across the table.

Ryuzaki shook his head, quietly finishing off the pear Danish with a tiny rainfall of crumbs and moving on to the cherry, picking it up with two careful fingers. "Too arrogant, Light-kun. Feeding you breakfast does not automatically signify I enjoy your company. After all, is it not the polite thing to do to take care of one's guests?"

"Which is precisely why you would only do it if you got something out of it. You're a manner-less ass, remember?"

"I will allow that point," Ryuzaki nodded unabashedly. "However, even if I do enjoy your company in general, that does not imply I enjoy everything about it – nor, I'm afraid, does it imply that it is a positive thing to listen to you wheedle. I stipulate that it _does_ count as a negative consequence, therefore negating any need for me to part with my breakfast."

Breaking his gaze momentarily from Ryuzaki's, Light nodded his thanks with a smile as Wallington placed a cup of tea beside him, strong and hot and more black than not, and he thought he might have received a twitch of an answering smile in return, before the man turned and retreated out of the kitchen, leaving them to their food and asinine argument. It seemed Wallington had a sense of humor – though that really should be requisite for anyone working for Ryuzaki, simply to be able to put up with all the shit he undoubtedly pulled on them.

"I disagree," Light continued after taking a sip. His eyes flicked back to Ryuzaki and settled on his composed countenance once more – particularly on his _almost_-expressionless lips. "You're smiling right now, which means you've been enjoying this exchange, so it can't count as a negative consequence."

Ryuzaki's smile, a bare curl at the edges of his mouth, instantly vanished, which only made Light's own smile stretch wider.

"Nope, it's too late – I already saw it," he declared smugly. "You'll have to give me a Danish. I'm not really fussy about which one, so I'll let you decide that."

Ryuzaki frowned peevishly at Light then down at his plate, which held four pasties at the moment – one blackberry and three strawberry. Light could practically see his mind at work as he tried to pull up a logical argument, spinning towards a solution.

They both knew Ryuzaki could simply refuse and end the discussion; they both knew he wouldn't at this point. Light grinned.

"It seems we've returned to the beginning," Ryuzaki said after a moment's consideration, those wide, endlessly black eyes returning to his. "If I give you a Danish, that would be rewarding your lying. However, you insist that if I don't, that would be rewarding mine. I'm afraid we've reached something of an impasse, Light-kun."

Their gazes locked together like opposite magnets, neither of them willing to back down, Light grinning and Ryuzaki mock-solemn but both completely absorbed with the other – so both were taken rather abruptly by surprise when a knife slammed down between them loudly on the table.

"For Christ's sake," an unfamiliar voice spoke up in a jarring switch from Japanese to English, the voice young and soft and slightly roughened, but not unpleasantly so. "Just cut the bloody thing in half."

Surprised, Light's eyes flickered away from Ryuzaki's as Ryuzaki's did the same, and together they laid their eyes on the intruder to their debate.

It was a young man – quite young, probably about Light's age – with a shaggy mop of hair that looked like it couldn't decide if it wanted to be red or brown so settled for a subtle mix of both, depending how the light caught it. A tiny stub of a cigarette was caught in his mouth and almost burned down to the filter, which looked like it had been gnawed on rather viciously, and a pair of goggles dangled around his neck with a fond familiarity.

And Light got the oddest feeling the guy didn't like him very much.

Which couldn't be right, because they'd never even met before.

And even if they had met, it would have been out-of-the-ordinary for the goggled stranger to dislike him. It wasn't arrogance (though Light did have plenty of that), but a statement of statistically-provable fact; the majority of people Light met walked away liking him, or at least the person they thought him to be.

Light eyed the stranger, and he found himself being eyed back.

"This is Matt," Ryuzaki said candidly, plucking up the rather abruptly-proffered knife and beginning to play with it idly, pendulating it between two pinched fingers as his eyes the followed the swaying path of the keen, glinting point. "He works for me. He is normally very agreeable and easy-going, but at the moment, as you can see, is in quite a bad mood. Due to his non-confrontational temperament, he is currently trying to pretend this obvious deviation from his normal behavior doesn't exist and will insist he is quite 'fine', should you ask. He will likewise expect you to ignore any blatant disgruntled tension he's harboring, so please be considerate to his self-delusion."

"I see," Light said slowly, his eyes sliding between Ryuzaki and Matt, who didn't look like he at all appreciated the introduction, though all he did was stare at the wall and tap his thumb in a rapid, subtle beat against his thigh.

At least this seemed to explain the cloud of muted hostility that seemed to be surrounding Matt despite his efforts to suppress it. Perhaps his hostility towards Light wasn't personal.

Not that it really mattered to Light, either way. Hostility was hostility, and nothing sparked Light's inner, deadly ice like hostility.

So Light smiled, a chilly, flawless smile, and tilted his head to meet Matt's eyes. "I'm Light Yagami," he said coolly, speaking English like the other two and rearranging his name accordingly. He extended a hand for a handshake, not bothering to stand. "Nice to meet you."

Light didn't like the way this Matt eyed his hand for a moment before grasping it loosely and giving it a lazy wag, and he didn't like the way his eyes dismissingly flicked away from him immediately afterwards. He hardened his own eyes in irritation.

Light did not appreciate being dismissed.

"Uh yeah, hullo, I guess. Anyway, listen Ryuzaki," Matt said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and leaning against counter. "We got work to do today, yeah? I don't wanna be a douche, but the others are coming soon so you probably oughta send your fuck home now, right? Give him his money or whatever."

Light's smile went from cool to downright glacial.

He didn't know who this stupid punk was or why he was so determined to piss Light off, but Light was going to annihilate him.

But just as he was about to open his mouth and speak, his eyes already glittering dangerously, he was smoothly interrupted.

"Now, this is rather interesting."

Light and Matt both swung their eyes to Ryuzaki, who was putting his innovative skills to work, using the knife to impale a bite of pastry on the point then carefully slide it off with a quiet scrape of his teeth. He glanced up at Matt, his eyes calm and his words smooth and even. Light crossed his legs and waited.

"Under different circumstances," Ryuzaki stated, turning his eyes back to his remaining pastries as he worked on slowly diminishing a strawberry Danish bite-by-bite, talking around each sugary mouthful, "I would have hypothesized you two would get along considerably well. However, as it is, you two are clearly well on your way to a needlessly messy battle of insults and slights in order to prove which of you is the bigger bastard."

Ryuzaki's eyes drifted up to meet Light's, and Light cocked an eyebrow, daring Ryuzaki to continue.

And again, of course he did just that.

"Matt," he said evenly, though his eyes stayed with Light's, "while you are exceedingly intelligent and undoubtedly capable, as you just proved a moment ago, of making sufficiently cutting remarks, Light-kun is in fact the bigger bastard here. You, you see, are typically a rather laid-back, unaggressive person, without the same experience in the cutthroat world of subtle antagonism. I think that once you regain your usual disposition, you will find you have neither the knack nor the inclination to earnestly contend with a bastard of Light-kun's caliber, and as such will regret your careless method of lashing out at him."

Ryuzaki gave a happy little smile, looking completely innocent of offense, though his ink-black eyes said otherwise.

"He's just a bastard, not a prostitute, which you know very well. Though he certainly is pretty enough, isn't he?"

Light's eyes broke from Ryuzaki's and flickered briefly to Matt, just long enough to see him doing the same to him, then he turned his eyes back to Ryuzaki and he smiled, smooth and deadly.

"I hadn't taken you for the self-sacrificing type, Ryuzaki. I'll admit I'm surprised."

Ryuzaki shook his head, taking another knife-speared bite of strawberry pastry. "I'm not," he assured.

"Self-sacrificing?" Matt cut in, a confused frown on his face, giving him a look of unwilling frustration and subdued bewilderment – as though he normally wouldn't have asked but was currently too uncharacteristically impatient not to.

Light glanced up at him indifferently. "I don't know what your issue is, kid," he said, rather enjoying the look of irritation that flashed across Matt's face at being called 'kid' by someone obviously near his own age, if not younger. "But it should be obvious even to you that Ryuzaki just tried to deflect my annoyance to himself rather than you. He was deliberating provoking me, so that I would focus on him instead and not bite your head off like you deserve. Is that clear enough?" Light's eyes pulled back to Ryuzaki's, which were studying him carefully, and he cocked his head. "Awfully noble of you, Ryuzaki."

Ryuzaki abandoned his pastry – for the moment – in favor of gnawing on his thumb.

"Very perceptive, Light-kun, as expected. However, there is one flaw in your reasoning. You assumed that I provoked you in order to protect Matt from your retaliation. Perhaps I merely don't like the thought of your attention, hostile or otherwise, being directed at anyone other than myself."

Light smirked, a breath of laughter escaping his lips.

"More deflection, Ryuzaki. But good try. Attempting to distract me from your self-sacrifice by appealing to my vanity, trying to make me think it was jealousy instead – it might have worked, had it been coming from anyone but you. You're too underhanded for it to just be jealousy. Really, nice try though. And it's quite touching to see you trying to protect the innocent little lamb from me."

Matt's _hey!_ of protest was ignored by both; Ryuzaki's eyes gleamed, and his lips twitched in a minute answering smile to Light's smirk.

"You really are fascinating, Light-kun."

"You just noticed?"

"No, but it is nice to be reminded."

"You know," Light said silkily. "Since you're so insistent to deflect my attention to yourself, I have to wonder if you're prepared to deal with it."

"That is a good point, Light-kun," Ryuzaki returned, falsely thoughtful. "You can be rather vicious, I've noticed, when offended. Like a catty girl."

Light's eyes flashed. "And you can be rather childishly vengeful, I've noticed – like a spoiled brat."

Ryuzaki's eyes glimmered. "You just noticed?"

"Hey, uh, guys?" Matt cut in, in a half-hearted belligerent snap, mostly just sounding disgruntled and resigned. "I'm still in the room, yeah? Can you stop with the strange foreplay?"

"This is not foreplay," Ryuzaki said calmly, but his too-black eyes still didn't leave Light's, and Light felt a quiet thrill slowly beginning to overtake his bones. "This is called a conversation."

"Uh, yeah – you look like you're going to eat each other."

"Then that would be called cannibalism, not foreplay."

Light grinned, unable to break the lock of those black eyes, nor did he want to. Ryuzaki was a bastard – as big a one as he was – but he certainly knew how to make things interesting.

But it was getting late in the morning, not to mention goggle-boy was here now, so it was time for Light to leave. Preferably with the last word.

With a sly smile and a brief glance at Matt, Light stood gracefully and leaned forward across the small table, so his face was close enough to Ryuzaki's to feel his warm breath on his cheek.

"Thanks for breakfast," he said smoothly, smirking into Ryuzaki's eyes, then he popped his chin up with his thumb and caught his lips in for a breath-stealing kiss, ignoring Matt's surprised _oh shit, c'mon guys, really__?_ When he pulled back and straightened up once again, enjoying the glaze of interested lust that had taken up Ryuzaki's eyes, he faced Matt with a devastatingly polite smile.

"It was nice to meet you. Maybe we'll meet again soon."

Then, with one last smirk at Ryuzaki, he said, "See you," and sauntered out of the room before either of them could speak.

Once he was out of the suite and striding with carpet-muted steps down the hotel hallway, having briefly stopped to grab his discarded jacket from last night, he smiled down in smug satisfaction at the three pastries in his hand – two with red filling and the last with black – which he'd snagged while Ryuzaki had been distracted with sticking his tongue around in Light's mouth.

Yes, he'd definitely had the last word.

And, when he remembered the photo currently stored in his cell phone's memory, snapped during the earliest hours of the day and containing Ryuzaki's sleeping face, he felt it had been a rather successful morning, all things considered. That photo was probably just what he needed to break through his artist block and finally finish Ryuzaki's face, and in exchange, Ryuzaki got to keep a rather mediocre painting of a lighthouse. Not a bad trade, Light thought complacently.

And then, once the drawing was finally done, maybe Light could more easily focus his artistic attention on the things that mattered – projects that had been slightly neglected in the wake of his frustration with the stubborn sketch.

Passing by a conveniently waiting garbage bin, Light dropped the Danishes inside and wiped his hand free of the crumbs.

With his other hand, he slipped his phone out of his pocket; his thumb punched in a number stored only in his own memory.

After two rings, a low, refined voice on the other end answered promptly, slightly fuzzy over the airwaves.

"_Yagami-kun?"_

"Mikami," Light said smoothly. "I have a matter to discuss with you. When can you meet?"

* * *

><p>Something had happened in the time since L had last seen his underlings to disrupt the dynamics among the three. One didn't need to be the greatest detective in the world to figure that one out.<p>

The first clue was Mello's behavior.

Mello was an unpredictable person on the best of days – within a certain parameter of predictable behaviors, at least – swinging with unfailing aggression from childlike enthusiasm to a volcano-hot temper, but today he was even more volatile than usual. One minute he'd be sitting at a computer, staring blankly while absentmindedly fingering his ever-present silver cross hanging from his neck, the next he'd jump up and start pacing around, scowling and tugging at his hair and complaining about how fucking boring this all was.

L assumed 'this all' to be referring to their task of reading through police reports of the musical killer. And while he was sympathetic, it needed to be done. Preferably not by L.

Mello hadn't even tried to pry into L's personal life today, save for a half-hearted question about_ who the fuck painted that lighthouse, L was that you? _Then he had unquestioningly accepted L's answer that it was a new hobby of Watari's, even though that was obviously a fabrication.

The second clue was Near's behavior. Or rather, the lack thereof.

Near wasn't a talkative person by any means, but today he was being particularly quiet, merely doing his work and sticking unobtrusively to the background. Well, more unobtrusively than he did usually.

It didn't seem to L, though, that Near was particularly affected by whatever had Mello's emotions so out of whack; it felt more like he simply was aware this was one of the times when Mello was more likely to erupt at any little thing and so was prudently waiting for things to settle down. He was keeping himself from the danger zone.

The third clue was Matt's behavior – Matt, who, despite his own emotional turmoil, was keeping himself firmly _in_ the danger zone, seated right next to Mello's computer and surrounded by a haze of constant smoke.

Matt was an interesting one. His behavior towards Light that morning, a rather unusual loss of control of his emotions, had been interesting as well – though that didn't change the fact that he now owed L three Danish pastries, since had he not provoked Light in the first place, Light probably wouldn't have felt it necessary to steal quite so many.

Matt was not the type who was often bothered by strong emotions, so it was obvious that his actions today were the result of an unusually potent emotional upset. Matt was an evader, dodging and ignoring, using distractions such as gaming and smoking and too-fast cars to keep from feeling anything too deeply; but it was clear something had happened that couldn't just be silenced and shoved to the side – which was why he had been so atypically aggressive this morning, lashing out like an injured animal. Though even then, it was subdued aggression. Passive aggression.

And he'd, rather ill-advisedly, taken it out on Light.

L could guess why he had done so. The root of it lay with what was probably the root of all Matt's current turmoil: Mello.

Matt had emotional attachment and feelings for Mello – that much was clear now. And Mello had dated Light, for a rather long time. Matt undoubtedly had some resentment about that – even if he wouldn't acknowledge it to himself – and it had come out today because of the current state of emotional unrest.

L decided Matt had probably been lying to himself for some time now, and everything was just now coming to a head.

L was glad he never did anything like that.

But the fact was, whatever that had so upset his subordinates needed to be resolved, because it was being entirely too distracting. The current case already needed to compete with Light for L's attention (a formidable opponent – L had previously caught himself twice today staring at a wall and thinking about Light's legs or hands or eyes or maddeningly provocative smirk), and it didn't need another challenger.

So. It seemed it would be necessary for Matt and Mello to resolve whatever was bothering them – or at least resolve it enough that it would stop interfering with L's work. Near could be left alone, as thus far his emotional turmoil (a phrase L used very sarcastically when applied to his white-haired successor) had not been intrusive. He obviously didn't have anything on his mind that needed resolution.

And so, the next time Mello burst from his chair for another flurry of wild pacing, L took a quiet sip of tea and decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Leave, Mello," he said blandly, not looking up from his tea.

"…What the fuck, L?" Mello snapped, his voice quick and impetuously annoyed.

"I am instructing you to leave the hotel for at least the length of an hour, possibly longer," L returned, infinitely calm as he set his teacup back down and evenly met Mello's tempestuous eyes. "You aren't working on the case, and whatever personal drama that is currently distracting you is being very noisy – mentally noisy. Therefore, I'm giving you an order – as your boss – to take an hour and sort yourself out so you are not distracting the rest of the room with your personal issues."

Mello's scowl had made full appearance before L was even a quarter of the way done.

"Like that's fucking fair. You're the one who's been staring at the wall for the past hour, mooning like a fucking girl over whatever guy you're screwing. Honestly, do you know how weird that is for you? And you won't even tell me who it is you're fucking, you shitty tightass."

L thought this unfair. He had only spent _half_ of an hour thinking about Light – and it certainly hadn't been 'mooning over' him. Just pondering the perfection of certain aspects of his body and mindset. And he happened to have a very good reason for keeping his current quasi-relationship a secret from Mello, despite the whole matter not being any of his business.

Well, unless the fact that L was sleeping with his ex-boyfriend made it his business. But even if it did entitle Mello to some information, L wasn't really inclined to give it to him.

"My own behavior is inconsequential," L said dismissingly. "I won't be swayed by any arguments, so you may as well just leave now."

Mello scowled and grumbled and looked like he might whip out a weapon of some sort and start letting loose on the hotel wall, but he just sighed loudly and angrily and stomped towards the door.

"Fine," he spat. "Since I'm obviously useless, I'll just go anyway." He stopped suddenly, then instantly swung around and headed for the kitchen. "I'm taking the chocolate with me."

"There's only one bar left," L called after him, and Mello just slammed the kitchen door in reply.

L glanced at Matt, and found him shooting a puzzled question of a look back.

"You might as well go with him too, Matt," L sighed with a resigned bite of his thumb. "You haven't been much use today either. And it will be an adequate punishment for you to deal with him, for insinuating that certain persons were whores this morning," L added, giving him a significant glance.

There. Never let it be said L wasn't occasionally sympathetic to the emotional needs of his minions. Hopefully the two would be able to sort themselves out.

Matt seemed to realize what L was up to (honestly, it wasn't like it was hard to figure – unless it was Mello, who was too wrapped up in his own unsettled emotions to notice anything outside himself), because his face had just quirked into a surprised half-smile, though he'd tossed an almost-apprehensive glance towards the kitchen immediately afterwards, where sounds of banging cupboards and indistinct muttering could be heard.

Honestly. L was rather insulted by that surprise. It wasn't like he didn't ever do anything thoughtful for anyone, like give them time to talk and sort their work-prohibiting problems out.

He just did it very rarely.

And usually with ulterior motives.

"Maybe go for a drive," he suggested. "I've noticed that's often very calming for both of you. I would suggest simply letting him rant, then come back when he's more stable – though I'm sure you're more accustomed to dealing with him when he's like this than I am."

Matt nodded and stood, already digging around in his pockets for his keys.

"'Kay, got it. Tell him I'll meet him out front. And I'm taking the Chevelle."

"That's acceptable," L agreed. "Now please leave, and take your distracting emotional problems with you. You're both very noisy."

Matt smiled, already looking more like his usual easy-going self, and headed towards the door. "Yeah, yeah, I got it." As he pulled the door open, he paused and threw L an oddly uncomfortable look. "Uh, and about this morning. Sorry, I guess. I was just…"

L waved a finger, cutting him off. "I am sure he will understand once the situation is explained, and not do anything too drastically maiming to you. It may be wise to keep an eye on your back for a short while, however. Just as a precaution." L, of course, was mostly joking. Light may have been rather vindictive, but what had happened this morning was too small of a matter for Light to do anything in serious retaliation.

Probably.

"Right," Matt grinned, his boyish charm settling back into his smile. Then with a careless wave of his hand, he was out the door, a stream of blown smoke his final farewell.

Minions were entirely too much effort, L decided. Quite frankly, it was exhausting dealing with them – but he felt he had done rather well, for one of his social ineptness, as Watari put it on his less generous days.

At the very least, L felt he deserved an extra slice of cake as reward. Though he wouldn't say no to another evening with Light.

Luckily, both were reasonably achievable.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: "I'll take a Danish…and EAT IT!" Heh. It couldn't be resisted.<em>

_Also, sorry for the delay with this one, guys. And thank you everyone for your too-kind birthday wishes (and reviews – those were especially nice). You all made it a wonderful day for me – thank you!_

_And then I went and didn't update for over two weeks. I'm not sure I deserve you guys._

_But it's here now! And the next chapter is already mostly completed, because a lot of it was intended for this chapter but eventually got booted to the next. And for those of you impatient for more about what's going on with the successors (besides the obvious 'ohmygod Mello slept with Near, what the fuck is going on' thing), that's coming soon._

_Also, this chapter would have been even more horrendously late without __Algea__, who is my darling Death Note counterpart soul sister fairy godmother (what? It makes perfect sense) – she not only puts up with my ramblings and helps me sort out muddled plot ideas and tells me to go to sleep when I stop making any sort of sense, but pretty much knows my brain better than I do. Lotsa credit and love to her._

_Right – you guys remember the bit up there, right after Light wakes up, when he yanks L to the ground with his foot? I'm such a responsible writer – I actually had a couple people test that out with me to make sure it worked. I may not a very good person to be around in real life, since I trick people into helping me with an 'experiment' without telling them I intend to knock them to the floor, but I _am_ a conscientious writer! And I did give them something soft to land on… All right, all right, I'm a horrible person, I know. I abuse people's trust, apparently._

_But I didn't dive-tackle anyone. I haven't sunk that low. Yet._

_Thanks for reading! (The "despite my ruthless writing tactics" is implied here.)_


	11. Deceit and Delusion

**Chapter Eleven**

_Deceit and Delusion_

* * *

><p><em>Saturday, 5:00 pm<em>

L was not an idiot.

Well, of course he wasn't; he was L. One did not get to become L by being an idiot. But because it was the first important point in L's chain of reasoning, it needed to be stated, even if it was rather obvious.

So, to begin again: L was not an idiot.

Second: Near was not an idiot either.

This point should have been almost as obvious as the first – at least in the terms in which L meant it. In matters of logical deduction and reasoning, Near was not an idiot.

Finally: L and Near were mutually aware of the other's status of non-idiot.

In other words, L knew Near wasn't an idiot, just as Near knew L wasn't an idiot.

So, in conclusion, L reasoned that since they were both logical beings with the proper respect for each other as fellow logical beings, a conversation between the two of them would tend to be efficient, systematic, and streamlined – as had been proven in the past. There was no need for the superfluous words other people stuck into their conversations to abide by unnecessary things like social niceties; there was no need to smooth things over to avoid offense when the clearest, most logical course could be taken – not that L used such polite conversing skills normally, but the fact that Near's brain worked along similarly orderly lines certainly made conversations with him much faster than with the general population.

So when Matt and Mello had left them to share the silence of the hotel room – Mello leaving more like a moody, chocolate-stealing hurricane than anything else – L had known that Near's brain was perfectly capable of deducing that L intended to use this opportunity to get some information and that there was little point evading him on this matter. Likewise, L had deduced that Near was the least likely of his successors to care about keeping the issue – whatever it was – secret, and was therefore the best possible candidate to interrogate.

As such, all L had been required to do was raise his eyebrows in question at Near after the door was shut tightly behind the departing hurricane, and Near had spoken up without hesitation.

"Mello and I had sexual relations in France," he said without a trace of emotion, a lock of hair curled round his finger and his black eyes peering briefly across at L before returning to the computer in front of him.

L blinked. Well. That certainly explained a few things.

"I see," he breathed out thoughtfully, as his brain began rearranging itself to accommodate this new information. Then, "Multiple instances?" he asked.

Near shook his head minutely, curls barely shifting. "Once."

"The initiator?" Ninety percent chance it was Mello.

"Mello," Near confirmed.

"The date and time?"

"Early morning, Thursday."

"His reactions upon waking?"

"Shock, confusion, and embarrassment – which he attempted to hide beneath anger and aggression. And he was more than usually hung-over, I assume."

L nodded, having suspected this to be the case. He paused a moment, another question occurring to him. "Your first time?"

Near glanced over at him again, his eyes still expressionless but as though checking to see if L was earnestly asking. L's clinical exterior must have convinced him he was serious and not asking because of some misplaced sense of sympathy, because he shrugged and turned back to his computer, answering, "No. I hardly see how that piece of information is pertinent, but there is no reason to conceal it. No, it was not my first sexual experience."

L would not deny he was mildly curious now about Near's apparent experience in sexual matters. When, where, with whom – these were all details about which he had absolutely no idea. Up until now, he hadn't even been certain Near had sexual urges.

But now was not the time, he decided – nor did he think Near would be as inclined to indulge his curiosity on the matter, if the disinterested line of his lips was anything by which to judge. And it was a small matter. L actually had no desire to root into his successors' sex lives, save for when it interfered with his work.

Like now.

This, simply put, had the potential to become quite a mess.

He didn't know what had driven Mello to think it would be a good idea to sleep with Near – nor, really, did he want to know – but the simple truth was that the situation was causing the blond enough internal distress that it interfered with his ability to work properly. And that was annoying.

Underlings were annoying enough when they weren't busy fucking each other and causing unnecessary drama. Besides, L was already sleeping with Mello's ex-boyfriend, which he felt was more than enough scandal for one workplace to be going on with.

In any case, this made recent events much clearer, now that L understood the history of what had occurred among his three underlings.

Mello was upset, in basic terms, because he had slept with the person he considered his greatest rival, the person he had spent his entire life hating and trying to beat. That was probably rather disconcerting.

Matt was upset because he, if L's suppositions were correct, had lurking feelings for Mello and had been surprised to find he'd slept with Near. While Matt was obviously well aware of Mello's prolific sexual behavior, it had likely been somewhat of a shock for it to have occurred with someone so proximally close to them – someone Matt knew well.

And Near was unaffected by it all because…well, because he was Near. The question wasn't why he was emotionally unmoved after sleeping with Mello; it was why he had done so in the first place.

L suspected it had less to do with an actual physical attraction to the blond and more to do with a desire to quietly stir things up and provoke Mello. Mello always claimed that Near never paid the least bit attention to him nor to his attempts to surpass him, which was partially what riled him up so much – after all, it was very frustrating for Mello to be ignored and dismissed by the one he had set up as his ultimate rival – but L had never believed this to be quite true. Near was just much subtler about what he did to antagonize Mello, and he always disconnected himself from the situation – unlike Mello.

It was no coincidence that Near could push Mello's buttons faster than anyone else.

But then, no one could calm Mello down faster than Matt. Which, of course, was why L had sent them off on their little tantrum-soothing expedition. They were both next to useless in their current states, though L admitted Matt had been for the most part back to his usual laid-back, mostly-productive self by the time he'd tossed them out. With any luck, he'd be able sort Mello out, at least to the point that he was an actual contribution to the team, rather than distracting everyone with his ill-tempered moodiness.

In the end, L supposed the reasons and motivations behind the whole matter didn't matter so much, as long as the problem was resolved.

And if it didn't get resolved, L was going to chuck the lot of them out for good and let them have sex together and create as much soap-opera drama as they wanted, and he'd finish the case himself.

And, of course, have sex with Light without worry of treading on one of Mello's too-sensitive toes.

Really, chucking his minions out was looking more and more appealing as an option. It was unfortunate Watari was so insistent they be trained, because it would make matters much simpler.

Ah, well. Then he would have no one on whom he could push off the boring grunt work. It all evened out in the end, he supposed.

Still, the drama among his subordinates was quite troublesome. At least Mello had yet to discover L's relations with Light – that was something for which to be grateful.

But L wasn't technically supposed to be thinking about Light right now. Watari had already reprimanded him once today for staring off into space, even going so far as to threaten his cake supply, though L felt he had managed to explain his distraction away as pondering about the murderer, not a certain pair of teasing eyes and long legs.

And contrary to what Watari and his successors might have thought, L was not shirking his work. He was perfectly capable of having a physical relationship with someone and solving a murder case at the same time. It just required a little prioritizing and time management – that was all.

And right now, it was time to focus on catching a certain murderer with a penchant for whacking people over the heads with their own flutes or trombones. Or strangling them with their own harp strings – the culprit didn't seem too picky how the actual murder was carried out, as long as it was done with the victim's own instrument.

L suspected the culprit had some sort of grudge against music, for some reason. Or perhaps just a music lover unduly irritated by poor playing. Or, it could be someone who had been forced to hear beginning violinists screeching on their strings one too many times and had simply snapped, losing all sanity and discrimination, lashing out at musicians of all instruments.

L could sympathize; he remembered his days of staying at Wammy's, after all, where there had been many geniuses but surprisingly few of the musical sort. Though that hadn't stopped a good number of them from trying.

Whatever the case, L, in the past half hour had already narrowed the possible murderer down to three suspects – which, he felt, was a very convenient number considering the amount of minions he had at his disposal. Tomorrow, he planned to send Matt, Mello, and Near to each investigate one of the suspects. Tomorrow – since he had already texted Matt and informed them it would be unnecessary for them to come back this evening and since there was little that could be done tonight anyway. Quite a nuisance if they did come back, actually.

And, once it hit eight o'clock, the part of his day specifically set apart (by Watari) to work on the case would be over, and the final, white-haired nuisance could be gotten rid of easily enough. L doubted it would be hard at all to get Near to leave the suite; L suspected he had already pieced together the identity of the person L was sleeping with, and he wasn't really the type to protest being told to sleep in another hotel room anyway.

All that was left was to convince Light he was in the mood to stop by the hotel tonight.

And L didn't feel that would be much of a problem.

Satisfied with his plans for the evening and with having solved the great underling drama mystery, as he was referring to it in his mind now, L took a sip of tea and returned to work. For the moment, he had a murderer to investigate and a possible grudge against music – or untalented musicians – to fish out.

* * *

><p>Light twisted his key in the lock, the sound of scraping metal catching in his ears.<p>

He had already checked the surrounding area twice and found it clear of any prying eyes: to his left there was nothing but a well-worn brick wall, to his right a set of narrow steps with a rusty metal railing, and behind him, a single, tightly shut door, the number 203 painted on its face in fading red.

The lock clicked open grudgingly, and with a twist of the handle, the door swung inwards with a noisy groan of hinges. Light stepped inside, slipping his shoes off and flicking on the lights, only pulling off the low cap from his head when the door was shut and bolted firmly behind him. His eyes fell on the dingy white of the narrow walls on either side and, ignoring the miniscule kitchen and bathroom tucked away through doors to the right, his bare feet padded quietly along the cold wood floor until the narrow walls obligingly opened up into a small, unfurnished room.

In fact, 'unfurnished' perhaps did not adequately describe the room; 'completely bare' would have been a more fitting explanation. There was nothing – nothing to break the harsh monotony of the dull white walls, nothing to soften the unforgiving wood flooring – the only decoration a thin, tattered curtain to keep the daylight from streaming in. Light yanked this open, allowing the sun to pool it's warmth onto the bare floor, and he briefly peered out of the smudged glass to the empty alley below before swinging his backpack from his shoulders, setting it on the floor and returning his eyes to the room enclosing him.

It was small, confining. Much smaller than his fifty-thousand yen apartment on the other side of the prefecture – much dirtier, much less refined. It was the sort of place Yagami Light would never live, the sort of one-man sardine apartment that starving students with no other options rented.

But then, Yagami Light didn't live there. In fact, no one did.

The place was rented under the name Ishikawa Aki, a person who only existed on paper, and most days the room was empty of any life save for the stray cockroach or spider. Were neighbors to be asked about the tenant in apartment 204, they would likely just shrug and say he was probably a young college student quietly living and minding his own business, like the rest of them – that was, if they even opened their own doors to answer in the first place.

This bare, dingy, cramped apartment surrounded by unobtrusive boarders, however, was the place where Light immersed himself in a world of trickery and color. This was where forgeries were brought to life, where he resurrected artists already cold and dead as he created masterpieces in their names, in their styles, in their fame. It was here that he practiced his harbored secret, and it was here that he hid the evidence of his less-than-legal activities.

His tools – his brushes, his blank canvases, his paint, his easel, his paint-aging chemicals – he kept locked in the bathroom, which was rigged with a rather ingenious system to catch afire if not unlocked and opened precisely the right way, and this was the only place where he allowed his skill at painting to truly surface.

Light was nothing if not thorough and careful.

He strode over to the bathroom now and withdrew another key from his pocket, slipping it carefully into the lock and turning it slowly to the left, counter to the direction which was intuitive. When he heard the telltale click, he pulled the door towards himself, turned the knob, then pushed it open, being careful not to hit the easel sitting in the center of the cramped bathroom.

His eyes fell upon the prepped canvas that as of yet had very little color to it, pensively running along the beginning brushstrokes already taking up the top left corner. A Chagall, this one was. Or it would be, once it was completed. The style was considerably different from the Monet Light had painted earlier, which made it an even more interesting challenge.

Briefly, Light wondered what his family would think, were they ever to see this hidden-away den of paint and unashamed deceit which had consumed so much of his life for the past few years.

Surprise – that was a given, though probably less so for Sayu than for his parents.

Disillusionment – another given, though again, less so for Sayu.

Disappointment? For his parents, definitely. For Sayu, probably not so much. She had always been a little more inclined towards deviousness than their upright parents – though hers was a more playful, good-natured mischief than anything else and always kept well within the boundaries of the law. Unlike her older brother.

Light wondered if his family would even be capable of understanding, of perceiving the _why_'s and _how_ _come_'s of what had driven him to begin this. They were average people – normal, almost impossibly so – with average intellects that were never plagued by the chronic, paralyzing boredom that had beset Light ever since, back in middle school, he had realized that half the teachers were incapable of teaching a pig to roll around in the mud, let alone actually impart anything of value to a class of prepubescent boys and girls.

Ryuzaki would understand, Light decided. What was it he had said last night? _"I think that, in different circumstances, I would have been in grave danger of becoming a criminal. Luckily, I was able to find something else to drive away my boredom."_ Yes, Ryuzaki would understand.

That was, he would understand if Light were a fool and happened to inform him of his affinity for painting forgeries and selling them for the usual ridiculously large amounts of money such masterpieces of art went for – or rather, the usual ridiculously large amounts of money they went for when they had a particular name etched along the bottom.

It only took a few minutes for Light to set his easel up in the center of the main room and prepare the rest of the supplies. He didn't bother closing the curtains; there was only a windowless wall across the alley, and the only way someone could see into the apartment would be if they climbed up the outside like a bug and smashed their face against the glass, which was highly unlikely. And Light preferred using natural light to paint by.

Light, holding his paintbrush loosely in his left hand, dipped it in his specially-altered paint and began the process of submerging himself into Chagall's artistic mask.

Then, he put his brush to canvas, and began to paint.

The main thing Light had been surprised to find, during his first year of high school when he first had been intrigued by the concept of forgeries, was how incredibly gullible the art world was in general. A painting could show up from an apparent private collection, claiming to have been painted by a famous master, and if it looked believable and had the proper provenance – the proper paper-trail and history – it would be almost unquestioningly accepted as genuine.

A painting with a paper past – proving who had owned it, where it had been shown – was much less likely to be a fake, and as such much more likely to be believed in its claims of authenticity. And, more importantly, much less likely to undergo thorough examination. If something seemed authentic, even if it was only superficially so, very few people thought to question it.

Light had quickly realized this concept as young schoolboy, and he certainly hadn't wasted any time in exploiting it in his schoolwork. Teachers were astronomically more likely to swallow any information he fed them in essays if he _sounded_ like he knew what he was taking about – even if it was complete and utter horse shit. Paintings were the same way; if the paper work, the provenance, seemed legitimate, the art world would gladly gobble it up, greedy for a chance to waste their wealth on a so-called priceless work of art.

But provenance, much like a painting, was able to be faked.

Which was why Mikami was such a useful find.

With his legal training, Mikami was perfectly capable of creating the false legal documents necessary to give a painting believable provenance – and his work was of a quality that even Light, with his perfectionist standards, wouldn't be ashamed to call it his own. But not only that, Mikami, after a little training from Light, was able to make the paper-trail lead back to anyone they wanted, should the forgery be detected.

Which was exactly what they wanted to happen.

Because Light didn't just paint forgeries for the thrill of pulling one over on the art world, though that was a great deal of his motivation. That was too easy, too simple, too liable to get boring. Instead, Light actually used his forgeries to lead the police to other forgers, forgers who had been selling false paintings for years undetected – such as Marshall Phillips, their first target, who had just recently been successfully apprehended.

The thing about forgeries, Light had realized, was that once a certain dealer's or seller's paintings began to fall under suspicion, their whole operation started to unravel, like a thread from a sweater tugged a little too hard. Art experts and authorities would begin more closely examining all the paintings sold by the suspected dealer, and since most forgers sold their forgeries directly themselves, it wasn't long until they were uncovered, all their fakes tracked down, and they were brought to justice.

To be strictly honest, Light wasn't too concerned with dealing forgers their fair share of punishment – though for Mikami, who Light had realized had a sense of justice that was just as strong as Light's father's but of a more vigilante sort, that was precisely why he agreed to help. For Light, however, it was just another level to the game, another interesting complexity that made it even more engaging.

To make it work, he had to be able to make very minor, purposeful mistakes in his work – such as making the craquelure, the natural cracking that occurred as paint aged and became less flexible, a little too even to be real, or making tiny errors in style or brushwork – small mistakes that wouldn't be detected right away, but over time would begin to stand out and eventually be detected.

Then, once the forgery fell under suspicion, it was put through more rigorous examination, and after being detected as a fake, the authorities traced it back to the original seller – though, of course, instead of finding Mikami and Light, they found whichever established forger Light wanted them to find. After that, it was simply a matter of a little digging, and the forger's actual work would be revealed and they would be brought to trial.

It was a simple concept, one which had been overdone in Hollywood films for decades: who better to catch a thief than a thief himself?

Who better to catch a forger than a forger himself?

Because Light was familiar with the process of creating forgeries and the necessary provenance to sell them, it was a much simpler matter for him to detect paintings that had been faked – especially when taken in consideration with his talent at hacking, which had been honed since before he was technically into his teens.

And it was such a thrill, such an intellectual power high – more stimulating and engaging than anything he'd ever done before.

Except maybe sex with Ryuzaki. That was a close second in capturing his interest, at least at the moment.

It had been Mikami who had first planted the idea in his head to use his forgery skills in such a manner, actually – an offhand remark of his made the first time they met, which, ironically enough, had occurred beneath Light's first and at the time only sold forgery, hanging proudly in a prominent museum.

At that time, Light had already spent his high school years slowly becoming more consumed with the idea of creating forgeries, of throwing dust into the eyes of the world, and by the time he was in his final year he had become proficient enough that he felt confident in actually selling one of his falsified works. Ishikawa Aki had already been created by then, the apartment used for hours and hours of practicing and refining his skills, and it was surprisingly simple to take that small step from painting forgeries for his own amusement to painting one to be purchased.

He had sold his first forgery almost a year ago, shortly before his graduation from high school. It had taken him eight months to complete and had sold for over two million yen – roughly thirty thousand US dollars. The paper-work, done on an old typewriter and reams of aged paper, had been simple enough to create and fake, though rather time-consuming.

It had been pride and an almost a morbid curiosity which pulled him to visit the museum in which it hung, and it had been chance that had arranged for Mikami to visit the museum on the same day and stand beneath Light's painting at the same moment. Light didn't know what it was that had prompted Mikami to make his casual comment and open up a conversation between them, but he did know it was a mutual intellectual interest that had lead them to continue conversing, eventually stopping at a small coffee shop outside the museum to continue their enjoyable exchange.

There had been no romantic overtones at that time – though Mikami was attractive and Light, from minimal observation, had suspected he was probably gay, Light had a boyfriend at the time and Mikami had shown no interest in dating a high school student. No, the enjoyment had been exclusively intellectual; Mikami was a decent conversationalist, interesting enough that Light didn't find himself unbearably bored by his company, and that was it.

And at some point, Mikami had mentioned what a shame it was there were so many forgers out there, hidden beneath the radar, and it was at moment precisely that the idea first struck Light, like a shock of inspiration.

He could use his forgeries to frame and fish out others. It was simple. It was brilliant.

And more importantly, it would probably hold his interest much longer than merely painting and selling forgeries himself.

Light hadn't acted on the idea right away – nor had he even considered approaching Mikami with the idea until a week after their initial meeting. He had eased into it, feeling out Mikami's potential interest, and when he was assured he would be positively received, he had dropped his proposition.

And that, really, had been that.

Mikami had proven efficient and capable, unobtrusive and easy to work with. Light hadn't yet regretted deciding to pull him into his plans.

It had taken some time for them to track down their first target, Marshall Phillips, as well as a brief trip to France, which Light had explained away as a graduation trip to his parents, to verify Light's suspicions that Phillips' pieces were indeed fakes painted by him. Overly cautious, perhaps, but worth it. Light had been right; they were phonies.

Well-done phonies, but still phonies.

It had taken even more time to complete the actual painting. Light, before he even started, had needed to immerse himself in Monet's style and habits, like learning another language. The actual painting itself took several months – partially because Light only had so much time when he could steal away to paint, partially because he was a perfectionist and even his mistakes needed to be perfect.

But eventually he had finished, Mikami taking care of the paper-trail and actually selling the painting – in disguise, of course – and it had been snapped up by a greedy collector with little question, with no more than a cursory investigation into its authenticity.

It had sold for about twenty-seven million euros, which equaled about three billion yen, or forty million US dollars. A staggering amount, but for a supposed Monet, hardly surprising.

Of course, not all of the money could be kept – some of it had to be placed in Phillip's account, framing him and leading the authorities to his door – but Light had been able to scrape off more than enough to make it an incredibly lucrative venture.

But the thrill, the heart-thumping high he'd gotten from watching it all unfold according to plan, had been worth even more.

And, he supposed, Mikami had seemed very pleased, if quietly so, with his own vigilante contribution towards ridding the world of pesky, art-disrespecting forgers. That was important too, that Mikami was satisfied with their efforts.

Overall, it was a slow building plan, each step taking painstaking time, the whole thing taking years to come to climax, but with time Light felt sure his forgeries would start catching the eye of the world. The authorities weren't complete idiots, after all; they'd realize soon enough someone was out there setting up forgers to be caught. And at that point, things would get really interesting.

Like a swimmer coming up for air, Light emerged from his abstracted concentration and examined the painting before him with critical eyes.

Color – that was what he was focusing on with this painting. It needed to be vivid, but simple – vastly different from the softer blend of the intricate Impressionist style of Monet.

And it wasn't turning out quite right. Something was a little off. No, not with the color – that was fine. But something, something about the painting was not quite right.

Decisively, Light grasped the canvas in firm, careful hands and flipped it so it was upside down, and just as he was setting it back on the easel he was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

Light froze, his breath stilling in his throat. His eyes flickered to his watch, waiting patiently on the floor because he wore it on his left hand and it weighted him down when he painted. Was it already time to meet with Mikami? It seemed it was. Several hours had passed without notice, the evening sun already been sinking towards the horizon, fading away and leaving him with less and less sunlight to see by.

He glanced around himself, abruptly becoming aware of his less immediate surroundings than just the canvas beneath his brush, and he realized was currently surrounded by little dishes of paint littered around his feet, their colorful number having slowly grown as time passed by disregarded. His lead and charcoal pencils were out and underfoot as well, as it usually wasn't just paint that went onto his canvases.

He glanced down at himself next – at his rolled up sleeves and paint-splotched fingers and hands and wrists. He had wanted to clean up before Mikami arrived, but it was no matter. Mikami already knew he painted, after all. There was nothing to hide.

First snatching a towel to wipe his hands on, he stepped carefully around his dishes of color then strode up to the door, pausing a moment to peer through the peephole and ensure it was indeed Mikami.

It was. He was standing there, briefcase in hand, checking his watch – unhurriedly, not with an air of impatience or annoyance but simply as if he was making sure he had the time right.

Light opened the door, stepping aside to make room, and Mikami immediately slipped inside, the door shutting quietly behind him.

"Mikami," Light greeted smoothly.

"Yagami-kun," Mikami returned with a pleasant smile, the rim of his glasses gleaming a little as they caught the electric light from above their heads. His eyes fell on Light's appearance, which clearly showed his recent activity, and he said, "I hope I didn't disturb you?"

"Of course not," Light assured with a flick of his eyes, turning to head back to the main room as Mikami slipped his shoes from his feet. "I was merely painting."

"Ah," Mikami said with a nod of understanding, following after Light down towards the small room consumed with painting. "May I see it?"

Light glanced at him from the edges of his eyes, shrugged, and gestured towards the easel with a careless hand. "Of course, go ahead. I've only just really started into it today, though. And watch the paint dishes."

As Mikami slinked carefully around the small dishes on the floor, Light tossed the hand towel to the floor as well then padded over to his backpack and zipped it open, sitting on his heels to root through it.

"This is a beautiful beginning," Mikami said behind him. "What is it?"

Light glanced over his shoulder briefly, before turning back to his search. "Upside-down."

"Pardon?" Mikami questioned, a tone of smooth surprise to his voice.

"The painting," Light said, straightening up as he found the manila folder he'd been looking for, being careful not to get any paint on it. "It's upside-down. I sometimes paint with the canvas upside-down to keep the painting from becoming too…" he paused, looking for a word, "ordinary. The Monet was done almost entirely upside down, in fact." He extended his arm, holding the file out for Mikami to take. "Here."

Mikami's eyes swiftly swept away from the painting, and he accepted the file from Light, beginning to flick through it, dark eyes scanning it quickly.

"Next target?" he asked quietly.

Light nodded, watching Mikami casually. "Blair Blackhurst. Australian – he has a banking account with the NAB. I've already verified one piece he's sold as a fake, and I strongly suspect at least another two of being the same. Will you be able to lead the trail back to him?"

Mikami's eyes flicked to him sharply from behind his glasses, and he nodded. "How long?"

"Within two months," Light answered without hesitation, leaning against the window frame. "The painting will be done by then, and that should leave you plenty of time."

Mikami just nodded again, looking back down at the file before his eyes brushed back to the upside-down painting, running along the work Light had already done. "Has anyone ever told you you're a very unusual person, Yagami-kun?"

A pair of black, wide eyes flashed in the eye of his mind, and Light smiled. "Once or twice."

Mikami's eyes left the painting to meet his, and his mouth gave a polite smile in return. "I thought that might be the case."

At that moment, against his thigh, Light's phone rang.

* * *

><p>Matt didn't have anything to say.<p>

He didn't have anything to say yet so he stayed quiet, simply enjoying the curl of his smoke and watching the dying glory of the sun, drenched in its last vestiges of color.

The drive had been quiet, comfortably so, with Mello staring out the window in uncharacteristic glumness as he gnawed at a chocolate bar and Matt just trying to lose himself and his mind in the curves of the road and the hum of the engine. It hadn't lasted long at all, it seemed, and before they knew it they had somehow or other found themselves outside an abandoned factory, grey and dull and lonely-looking against the orange sky.

Matt had cocked an eyebrow in question and Mello had shrugged in agreement, so they'd left the car behind to wander around and throw rocks at crumbling walls just because they could, like two schoolboys flirting with any outlet for destruction. Eventually they'd gotten bored with that and so had clambered up to sit atop the wall, feet dangling down as they watched the sun slowly setting.

It was comfortable, like it had ever been between them, their friendship an untouched constant no matter what shit was going down in their lives. Matt didn't know how many times they'd ended up like this, ended up running away to escape the world for a few short hours, Mello caught in the downswing of his own volatile behavior and Matt by his side as a silent, unconditional support, waiting until Mello was inclined to talk.

Because he always talked. Sooner or later – just how soon depending on the perceived seriousness of whatever was fucking with his mind – he always got tired of sulking and was ready to bitch it out with Matt. And Matt was always ready to listen, even if he had nothing to say.

After a few minutes of silent sitting and watching the sun sink closer and closer towards the horizon, any annoying bugs kept away by the smoke of Matt's cigarette, Mello spoke up.

"I'm an idiot," he said with frowning decisiveness.

Matt, despite the urge to agree and perhaps helpfully point out several examples of exactly how much an idiot Mello was, just hummed noncommittally and took a pull from his smoke.

"Really," Mello reiterated, as though Matt hadn't believed him the first time. "A complete idiot. I mean, I still can't fucking believe how much of an idiot I am."

Matt shrugged, slowly releasing his smoke into the evening air. "If this is about the Near thing, you're making too big a deal out of it."

"It's Near!" Mello said in a small explosion, his hands clutching at sun-colored hair. "How can it not be a big deal, Matty? I mean, _Near!_" he repeated, trying to put all the inexplicable _Near_-ness into that one name, as if words alone couldn't explain how fucked-up it was.

Yeah, Matt was already aware how fucked-up it was, thanks. He knew very well it was Near Mello had slept with; he didn't need reminding.

But he just gave another shrug, another drag on his cigarette. Mello didn't need someone to match his intensity and fire right now, and he certainly didn't need someone to dismiss his feelings as childish or out of control.

"Yeah, it's Near," he said simply. "You hate 'im. You've been trying to pass him up practically since before your balls even dropped. You're constantly pissed off by him. You bitch about him at least three times a week, if not more."

"Exactly!" Mello exclaimed, his hands gesturing, still trying to express that apparently inexpressible insanity over it being _Near_.

"You also," Matt continued steadily, "respect him."

Mello stared incredulously at him then. "What the fu-" he tried protesting, but Matt continued regardless of this interruption.

"You respect him," he repeated. "Not like you respect L, but in a way you do respect him. The same way, I dunno, the same Raphael respects Leonardo."

Mello gave him a funny look. "What, the artists?"

"No, idjit, the turtles," Matt rolled his eyes. "Ya know how Raph's always mouthing off about Leonardo, but in the end they still got each other's shelly backs? Kinda like that."

"Raphael fucked Leonardo?"

Matt groaned, trying to shake unwanted images of fucking turtles from his head. "Ah Christ, Mels, you know 'm not saying that. Jeez, I really didn't need that mental image."

Mello's lips twitched in a grin, his booted foot knocking gently into Matt's. "What, you don't jack off to the thought of the Ninja Turtles getting it on?"

"No, actually. And ya know, I don't care if you do, I just don't wanna hear about it, right?"

Mello rolled his eyes, his grin fading as a comfortable silence settled over them again. It was broken soon, though, as he glanced back at Matt and spoke up again.

"Look, I'm not saying you're right, but even if I did respect him a little, there are a lotta people I respect who I can never imagine myself fucking. Spiderman, for instance."

Matt took that as of much of a confession for grudging respect for Near that Mello would ever admit to. "Spiderman isn't real, man," was all he said, though.

"No _shit_. But I'm saying, if he were, I wouldn't wanna fuck him, 'cause he's kind of an annoying little twerp, even though he's got some pretty sick powers. Near's an annoying little twerp too, for that matter. But see, Batman? Batman I would wanna fuck. And if we go off into the villain category, we can throw Catwoman in there too. Oh shit, wouldn't that be hot? Threesome with Batman and Catwoman?"

"I think that's just your black leather fetish speaking, Mels."

"Maybe, but the point stands."

Matt threw him a quick glance, his eyes flicking away from the sunset then back again, feeling they were getting a little off topic. "What point?"

Mello glanced back at him. "That there's no fucking reason for me to have fucked Near, and it pisses me off that I did."

Okay, so they were still on topic, it was just taking a sporadic detour into which superheroes – and supervillains – Mello wanted to fuck.

"Mels," Matt said, tapping a bit of ash from the tip of his cigarette, "why are you so pissed off about it? I mean, I get it, okay? It's Near, it's weird, maybe a little fucked up, but no more than anything else we've gotten ourselves into before. Look, it's just one fuck, right? And Near hasn't even mentioned it since. It's just one of those things that happens, and you both forget about it and move on. It's life, it happens. You're the only one still hanging onto this, really. So why're you so pissed?"

Mello looked away, out towards the fading sunlight. "I dunno, Matty," he said, and Matt didn't like the confused, unhappy frown he saw pulling at his lips. "I guess I kinda feel like, I dunno, that I'm outta control or something. I mean, I like sex, you know? A lot. It's like fucking chocolate to me. But lately I've been wondering if maybe, well, I'm outta control or something, you know? Back there in France, that night, I woulda thought you were completely nutters if you said I was going to be fucking with Near in a few hours. But then he was pissing me off so much, just sitting there so damn smug and annoying, and I was so angry that before I knew it I was across the room and kissing him, 'cause it was the only thing left 'sides shooting his fucking brains out of his skull. And it just makes me wonder if maybe I don't have any fucking control, you know? About sex, I mean."

Matt did know. But he had never expected Mello to feel that way. Mello had always relished his sexual freedom, chasing after it in both quality and quantity, never regretting and never looking back. He jumped into things with both feet, for better or worse, and he rarely let any doubts sour his mood for long. He wasn't the type to question himself like this.

Matt wasn't sure how he felt about it. And if its source was what he suspected it was – or rather who he expected it was – he _really_ wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"You've never felt this way before, Mels," he said with another low-key glance, voicing some of his thoughts. "You've never been ashamed about how much you fuck around before."

"Yeah, I know. But, maybe it's something I should think about, you know?" Mello said, looking at Matt as though he could explain what was going on in his head, help him understand what the fuck this sudden self-doubt was doing springing itself on him. He looked like a bewildered kid, and Matt really didn't like seeing his friend so torn up about something that had never bothered him ever since he'd first found out a dick could do more than just piss.

"No, Mels," he said simply. "I don't know. I don't know why you're so caught up about this. I mean, I can understand the Near bit – yeah, that's a little surprising, but in the end not a big deal – but I don't see why you need to start questioning yourself about sex. You like sex, right? There's no reason not to keep having it, with whoever you want. I mean, as long as they want it too – I'm not telling you to go rape anyone – and as long as you're careful of diseases and don't knock some chick up. I don't see the problem, man."

Mello shrugged. "Yeah, I guess," he said, and Matt took another pull of smoke because it really didn't sound like Mello was anywhere near convinced.

"Listen, Mello," he said finally, smoke escaping his mouth in a quick, warm rush. "Unless you're looking for a long-term thing, you don't need to worry about this. And I can't really see you going for something long-term, at least not right now in your life. I mean, the closest you ever got to something long-term was with that Light guy, yeah? Two months or something, right? And that was pretty outta you norm, so it's not like you can use it as a representative example. Mostly you're just interested in fucking around with someone for a short while, so like I said, I don't see the problem."

Matt hadn't wanted to mention Light, partially because he was still vaguely embarrassed about his behavior this morning, partially because he suspected Light was actually the root of what was bothering Mello – not Near – which was part of why Matt had acted the way he did this morning in the first place. And if that was true, it meant Mello might have to face up to a few things he'd been ignoring the past couple weeks, and it would mean Matt would have to watch him realize his feelings for Light hadn't been quite as casual as he'd pretended to himself.

And that might be a little more than Matt wanted to endure.

Mello had gone quiet after Matt's words, and Matt felt something that might have been dread sneaking unwanted into his lower gut.

"Yeah," Mello said, glaring into the sunset now. "That was out of my norm, huh?"

Matt felt he was focusing on the wrong bit. "Mels, seriously dude, snap out of this. You fucked Near, big deal. It's what you do. You like to fuck. Nothing wrong with it. So chill, yeah? Go find a hot chick and bang her, you'll be back to normal in no time. Or a hot guy, whatever."

"Yeah," Mello nodded, still glaring thoughtfully. "But you know, maybe if I wasn't like this, I wouldn't have slipped up and cheated on Light. Just, I dunno. Maybe. Ah _fuck_," he snapped suddenly, his voice quick and angry. "That was my damn fault, wasn't it? 'Cause I'm so fucked up. If I wasn't so used to fucking around so much it would never have happened, I woulda just told that girl to piss off."

Oh shit, they were at the root of the matter. Or, at least what Matt felt was the root of the matter. And he doubted either of them really wanted to be there.

He doubted either of them really wanted to dig too deeply into Mello's emotions about Light, not when they both were doing such good jobs lying to themselves.

Matt didn't look up from the lighter he had pulled from his pocket and was now tossing around in his hand. He didn't want to see Mello right now. He didn't want to see the expression of angry self-turned hate, the frustrated hands grasping at blond hair, the pissed-off bewilderment and outburst of volcanic emotion that had nothing to do with him – none of it. He just wanted to pretend it didn't exist.

If he didn't see it then it wasn't real, and if it wasn't real then it couldn't hurt and he wouldn't have to deal with it.

Matt was a deflector, a diffuser, the laid-back one of that fucked-up trio of successors, the one who didn't get strong emotions and just didn't give half a fuck about solving crimes and didn't ever get worked up about anything. He was the one who kept Mello from blowing Near's face all over the floor with a squeeze from his impulsive trigger-finger, and he was the one who smoothed things over when Near forgot what it was like to be a human and made some passive-aggressive jackass remark just to stir dust up and watch how it settled.

He was Mello's friend, there so Mello didn't get lonely and didn't pull too much shit.

So he said, "Maybe you're right," and watched his smoke escape, running away from him to the sky's embrace. "But does it matter? I mean, it's over, right? No big deal, you said you were just fucking anyway. Not a big deal either way, it was going to end eventually. No reason to kick yourself over this, when it was just fucking, yeah? So stop flipping out over it all. You slept with Near, so what. You cheated on Light, so what. It happens. Move on."

He ignored any guilt he might have felt for pulling Mello further into his self-delusion, for feeding him the half-lies Mello had been feeding himself in the weeks since the breakup and even before. Matt had no use for guilt. It was pointless getting so worked up, when it was easier to just light up a cigarette and let everything fade away like smoke.

There was no purpose in pointing out that maybe Mello had missed Light a little more than he let himself realize, and what that might imply.

And when Mello's lips twitched in a small grin, relief filling his features, Matt didn't feel anything but relief himself, the sense of a bullet successfully dodged.

"Yeah, duh, you're right," Mello said, the familiar lines he'd told himself before doing their work. "I don't know why I was letting it bother me so fucking much. I guess I just felt kinda guilty for pulling that shit on Light, then when you put it next to the whole fucked-up Near thing the whole thing just sort of got to me. Jesus Christ, though – I still can't believe I slept with Near. That's so fucked up."

And since Mello sounded much more cheerful over the fucked-up nature of the situation rather than bewildered and moody, Matt released a puff of smoke in a half-sigh of relief.

There. Everyone should be content now. Mello was obviously ready to let go of the whole sleeping with Near thing and move on, not to mention continue believing he hadn't felt anything for Light beyond a good-looking, convenient fuck. Also, L would have his successors working again without unnecessary emotional turmoil distracting them, Matt would have his friend back to normal, and Near…well, it was Near. Who fucking cared what Near thought or felt – if he even felt anything at all.

Mello was happy again, and that had just solved almost all the immediate problems bothering L and his successors.

Mello grinned over at Matt, his eyes bright and laughing.

"Jesus, that was a lot of drama over nothing, in the end, huh? Thanks for listening, man. I mean, you're so fucking nice. Why the fuck are you so nice? It makes me feel like a piece of shit sometimes," he said, though his grin took away any self-reproach his words might have had. "I mean, it feels sometimes you're a fucking saint or something compared to me."

Matt didn't feel like looking at Mello, so he let his hands and eyes be busy tossing away his stub of a burned-out cigarette and fishing out a fresh one to light up.

"C'mon, I'm not a saint, Mels," he said, his new cigarette held loosely between his teeth, his calloused thumb flicking along the wheel of his lighter. "Not even close, you know?" There was a flare as his lighter clicked to life, catching the cigarette tip in its flame, and at the first pull of smoke his body immediately relaxed. At ease once again, he slowly released the smoke then gave a wry grin to Mello's considerably more enthusiastic form beside him. "Really, c'mon man. I'm not nice. Not really mean, either. I'm not really anything, ya know? I don't do much at all – nothing good, nothing bad, just nothing. I just do whatever, whatever I want. I'm just kind of here. I'm just…me. Matt. I'm Matt."

"I know you're Matt, dumbass," Mello laughed, his smile too bright to look at without a smoke on hand. "You're rambling, y'know that right?"

Matt chuckled as well and took another deep drag from his cigarette, glad his lungs and heart were located within the same general area, because it certainly made it easier for the smoke to wander over to his heart and ease any nasty little twinges of not-guilt it might have.

"I know. But it's 'Dungeons & Dragons', see?" he said easily, turning his eyes to watch the smoke from between his lips cavort towards the darkening sky. "I'm the, what is it, the Chaotic Neutral, right? You're the actual good guy here – Chaotic Good, but still good. The 'the end justifies all the crazy shit I pull' guy. Me? I just do whatever. Whatever the hell I want. I got no big desire to save the world, become L, like you do. Chaotic Neutral, do whatever the fuck I want."

"You're such a geektard, Matty. D'you really just use DnD for an analogy? Seriously?"

Matt grinned, briefly meeting Mello's laughing dark eyes. "C'mon, you know it's boss."

Mello snorted and said, "You're such an idiot," and Matt took another draw of smoke because that too bright, too carefree, too Mello-ish smile was back, splitting Mello's face, the same smile he'd had the first day they'd met at Wammy's – back when Matt, a lanky, gangly child with no friends, had decided on a whim to give that weird new blond kid who was crying in the corner a bit of a chocolate bar he'd gotten for his birthday but didn't want because it was full of gross almonds. The kid had glared but snatched it out of his hand anyway, and when Matt sneaked a glance at him later he had seen him chomping away at it, with a smile that looked like the sun had risen on his face, and Matt had been following after that sun and smile ever since.

But right now, Matt didn't really feel like looking at it, so he looked off towards the real sun and pulled on his nicotine instead.

"You know," Mello said, after a moment of comfortable silence, or what probably seemed a lot like comfortable silence to Mello. "If you really are Chaotic Neutral and just do whatever the fuck you want, why are you here?"

Matt looked at him and laughed, a feeling of vague danger creeping up on him. "What do you mean, why am I here? Here in the world, here in Japan, sitting here on a wall and wasting my time listening to you bitch about your sex problems?"

"Hey, don't say it like that, you make me sound like I can't get it up."

"Yeah, that's really not the problem, is it?"

"Asshole," Mello grinned. "But I mean, you don't wanna be the next L, right? So what are you doing here? Why do you put up with all his insane shit? Fuck, why'd ya put up with all our shit? Mine, L's, the fuckwit albino's… You don't have to, right? Seriously, why do you stick around?"

This was definitely getting dangerous. Matt shifted, pulling one leg up and tucking it next to his body on the wall.

Fuck, he was turning into L.

He straightened it back out, letting it dangle again, and gave his best relaxed grin.

"What, you want me to take off or something?"

Mello instantly swung from aggressively curious to aggressively backpedaling.

"What the fuck are you saying? 'Course not, idiot. Jesus Christ, I think I'd go fucking nuts if you did."

Matt gave a snort of half-amused laughter. "You already go around fucking nuts. I thought that was what you were whining about earlier."

Mello threw him a completely confused look, not even bothering to pretend he understood. "What? What was I whining about earlier?"

Matt glanced at him, cocking an eyebrow in surprise that Mello hadn't noticed the obvious innuendo yet. Usually he was all over those.

"Think about it," he said.

Mello scrunched his face up in thought. "I was talking about Near earlier, right? And how I can't stop myself from fucking…" His eyes lit up as his brain caught on, and he burst into sudden laughter like a supernova. "Holy shit, from fucking nuts! God, I'm pretty damn funny, huh?"

Matt just grinned and shook his head. "Bloody hilarious, man. So ya know, it should be a no-brainer that I stick around for all your unintentional sexual humor. Duh, man."

"I knew it," Mello grinned back. "Who wouldn't want be around this kind of genius?"

Matt gave his cigarette a hard flick and watched the ash tumble from the tip, all the way down to the dirt below, almost hitting a little tuft of browning grass.

"Beats me," he said, jumping to his feet atop the wall and lazily brushing his pants off, and Mello glanced up in surprise at the sudden movement. "Anyway, let's get going, man. How much you wanna bet L will be staring off in space when we get back instead of working?"

Mello clambered to his feet as well, extending his hand with a daring grin. "Couple bars o' chocolate for me, pack o' ciggies for you. Deal?"

Matt glanced at the proffered hand, bare and smooth, then clasped it with his own.

"Deal," he agreed.

"And none of that cheap shit chocolate," Mello stipulated, squeezing his hand a little too hard for extra persuasion. "The good stuff, right?"

"Yeah, if you win," Matt rolled his eyes, then their hands were apart and Mello grinned like an excited little kid.

"Ah shit, you just got suckered big time, man. I heard Watari threatening L before we left that if he 'didn't make significant headway on the case today', he wouldn't get cake tomorrow. He's gonna have his fucking nose to the grindstone when we get back."

And Matt just chuckled, because Mello looked so much like a mischievous imp who'd just pulled the ultimate prank, and because he couldn't do anything but chuckle and suck on a cigarette and remind himself that this was why he was friends with Mello, this was why he wouldn't do anything to fuck with that friendship.

And when Mello took off trotting smugly down the wall, back towards the car parked among the weeds and gravel and the setting sun, Matt followed after.

Later, he'd think it unfortunate he didn't bother checking his phone first before climbing in the car and tearing back to the hotel with Mello.

* * *

><p><em>Ring. Ring. Ring.<em>

"Excuse me a moment," Light said with a well-crafted smile, and Mikami nodded obligingly, turning to examine the file in deeper detail. "Hello?"

"_I have underling drama,"_ was the only form of greeting given, though the smooth, low voice was hard not to recognize.

"…Hello, Ryuzaki."

"_Hello, Light-kun."_

Light gave another smile, lifted a finger and mouthed for _sorry, just one minute_ at Mikami, then stepped into the small kitchen – not quite out of hearing distance, as that was impossible in an apartment of this size, but far enough his conversation wouldn't be obtrusive.

"What do you need, Ryuzaki?"

"_I believe I just informed you."_

"No, actually – you made a statement. You didn't make any indication about why you are calling me with your so-called 'underling drama'."

"_I don't believe I appreciate the dismissing manner in which you said that. I assure you, this is a rather serious matter."_

"What do you need, Ryuzaki?" Light asked again, torn between grinning and frowning in exasperation. Ryuzaki tended to do that to him.

"_I have underling drama-"_

"Yes, you mentioned that."

"_Let me finish, Light-kun, it is very rude to interrupt. As I was saying, I have underling drama at the moment, which has been causing me an undue amount of stress and has been interfering with my motivation to work. Therefore, I believe a form of stress relief is in order. Do you have anything to suggest?"_

The grin was beginning to win out on the battle for Light's expression.

"I've heard exercise is a good method for relieving stress."

"_Yes, I had been considering something along similar lines."_

Light paused for a moment, pretending to think. "Well then, how about a walk? I think fresh air would do you good as well."

"_I'm afraid I'm too unfamiliar with the city and would likely just get lost, which would cause unnecessary difficulty for Wallington."_

"Take a map."

"_I do not like maps."_

"How about a treadmill?" Light said, his voice low and smooth. "Surely your hotel has an exercise room?"

"_I'm sure you can guess I would not enjoy that sort of environment, Light-kun."_

Yes, he most certainly could. But it was a rather funny mental image to picture Ryuzaki in his baggy jeans and wrinkled shirt and his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoeless feet shuffling along a treadmill as the rest of the room stared at him in their perky biker shorts and sweat-towels. And it was even funnier to picture Ryuzaki in perky biker shorts and a sweat-towel himself, trotting along briskly to the whir of the machine.

Light gave in and grinned.

"Go swimming in the pool," he suggested instead, sparking several new mental images as funny as the last.

"_...I do not feel you are considering this with the appropriate seriousness."_

"A swim is a perfectly valid suggestion."

"_I do not swim, Light-kun."_

"You know, Ryuzaki," Light said reasonably, enjoying being the one doing the provoking for once, "if you're just going to shoot down every suggestion I make, I don't see why you called me."

"_Perhaps you are not making the right suggestions."_

"Perhaps you ought to just ask me straight out what you need." It was, after all, rather obvious what form of 'stress relief' Ryuzaki was after, but Light saw no reason to make it easy for him. He waited patiently, a quiet smirk on his lips.

There was a brief pause on the other end of a line, a moment of deliberation, before Ryuzaki's voice hummed quietly in his ear once more.

"_Do you play tennis, Light-kun?"_

Light had honestly not been expecting that. He'd been expecting anything from a blunt _come over here so I can fuck you_ to a coyer but similarly-intentioned invitation for a drink or two that evening, not a random inquisition into his sport-playing history – and for that matter, he really wasn't sure how he felt about the knowing way Ryuzaki voiced the question, making it very clear he was already aware Light played tennis. Maybe Ryuzaki really was after a conventional form of exercise, somehow knew Light had played tennis (it wasn't as if the information was classified or hard to come across), and wanted Light to play a set with him?

Improbable, but possible.

"…I do," Light said suspiciously.

Ryuzaki answered immediately, sounding rather satisfied. _"I thought so. Now, if you are so eager to help me, why not come over here and let me fuck you?"_

…That sly, stubborn little bastard.

"You asked about the tennis just to distract me, didn't you?" Light asked, already knowing the answer. Of course Ryuzaki had; he took ridiculous pleasure in throwing Light for a loop any time he could, and it was obvious he had done it now for just that purpose.

"_Of course not. That's very suspicious of you, Light-kun. I simply prefer to defy expectations once in a while."_

"You're an ass, Ryuzaki." But he couldn't keep the smile from his lips.

"_Light-kun, need I make the obvious remark about exactly whose ass is in question here?"_

"I don't think so. Unless, of course, you've recently been lusting after Wallington's ass and wanted to confess to me. In that case, I'll be glad to back out and leave you two to your newfound love."

"…_That is a rather disturbing thought."_

"Isn't it?" Light said, viciously cheerful.

"_And quite unnecessary – and, might I add, childish – for you to inflict me with that idea. However, such matters aside, you have not yet answered my question, Light-kun."_

Light paused, his eyes thoughtful as they rested absently on the two-burner stovetop he had never used, but his lips were still smirking softly. He thought about the sketchbook currently slipped inside his backpack, the unfinished etching of Ryuzaki between its covers. He thought about the photo stored on his phone and the fact that there really wasn't much purpose in seeing Ryuzaki anymore, since the photo would be amply adequate to finish the stubborn sketch.

"Yeah, alright," he agreed. "But with the understanding that you'll owe me after this."

Irritating, fascinating, undrawable face aside, Light wasn't quite done with Ryuzaki.

"_I find that unfair, since I'm sure this will be mutually enjoyable for the both of us."_

"Mm, tough luck," he hummed. "You'll still owe me, since you were the one with the 'underling drama'. Besides, you have no tact. What time?"

"_Oh, whenever convenient. I have completed my work for the day. And I fail to see how my lack of tact automatically puts me in your debt."_

"Because it means I have to deal with you and your completely unsubtle invitations. It's very trying, you understand. I'll see you in twenty-five minutes."

"_We'll be discussing this matter further, Light-kun,"_ Ryuzaki warned.

Light grinned. "I look forward to it."

Then he snapped his phone shut and slipped back out of the kitchen, his grin morphing into a polite smile. "Sorry about that, Mikami. Do you have any further questions about the next target?"

Mikami smiled as well and shook his head, long fingers snapping his briefcase shut, the file already hidden inside. "No, but if I have any I'll contact you, Yagami-kun. Was there anything else?"

"Not this time."

Mikami nodded, already headed towards the door. "I'll say goodbye for now, then. Have a good evening."

Light followed him politely to the door, and when he was gone with one last slim smile and professional nod, Light bolted the door behind him and turned back to the mess waiting him in the main room. He smirked to himself.

He needed to get cleaned up, both himself and the room, then he had an annoying bastard to see.

The painting could wait.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Hello. <em>_I, as a conscientious writer (hah), would like to assure you all that I did quite a bit of research into the topic of forgery for this story. I mean, hours of the stuff. However, let me put the disclaimer out there that it was mostly the sort of research done on that two-edged sword called the Internet (though I did ask my painter uncle a couple questions, which I think concerned him slightly about the legality of some of my activities), so be aware some of my information may be incorrect, purposely skewed by me for the sake of plot (which I do with impunity, frequently), or purposely skewed by my uncle because he wanted to be a douchebag (unlikely – he's my nice uncle)._

_Also, this so-called research more often than not ended with me somehow or other doing very unproductive things, like reading about serial killer copycats (uncreative lot, for the most part), randomly double-checking the meaning of the word 'consanguinity' (the quality or state of being consanguineous – isn't that helpful?), scanning the episode list for the old Adam West Batman TV series (just…don't ask), and learning about other such fascinatingly pointless topics. So, yeah. I tried._

_But! Speaking of fascinatingly pointless topics I read about while researching forgeries, did you know that male giraffes figure out if a female is fertile by _tasting_ her urine before he bangs her? Really – Wikipedia told me, that informative little bugger. Think of the pick-up lines! "Hey sexy, I seem to have misplaced my piss. Can I have yours?"_

_Right. I think that's enough of that. Thanks for reading, and a particularly creepy thank you to all you too wonderful people who reviewed last chapter. Thank you! And again, lots of creepy thanks to my fairy godmother for checking references and keeping me grounded and sane and reminding me of the insignificance of "happens"._

_So. What will happen at the hotel? Is this the end of Mello's happy ignorance? Will they escape unscathed? And how exactly did Light convince Mikami to join him in his dauntless crusade against international forgery crime? __Tune in next time…_

_Same bat time, same bat channel!_

_(This will only make sense if you're familiar with the Adam West Batman series. If you aren't, you are missing out on a gem of pop culture, not to mention the ability to use "Holy (insert something surprising here), Batman!" For instance, "Holy long-ass author's note, Batman!" See? Though I don't think my long, pointless notes should be surprising to you anymore, exactly. And I don't think Robin was allowed to say "ass". And no, "insert something surprising here" is not allowed to be turned into a "that's what she said" innuendo. Don't even try.)_

_I do apologize for the long-ass author's note, though._


	12. Cars and Realizations

**Chapter Twelve**

_Cars and Realizations_

* * *

><p>If there was one thing Mello knew about himself, it was that he never bothered to do anything half-assed.<p>

He might have been an impetuous son of a bitch – Light had been right about that – but at least he wasn't a wishy-washy twerp who didn't have enough guts or _oomph_ to grab life by the throat and _do something_, to make up his damn mind and just fucking_ act_ when shit needed to get done.

Unlike a certain fuckwit Near he could talk about.

Nah, if something was worth doing then it was worth doing at full throttle, and Mello lived his life by that creed. Yeah he fucked-up a lot, he made mistakes, but mistakes could usually be fixed and it was better than sitting still and letting life flow past him – or worse, letting it crash over him like a wave, sweeping him away like a helpless clump of seaweed. No – Mello wasn't a passive player, a passive force, and if life was a wave then he was going to grab a board and ride the bitch like it was cheap backstreet whore, no question.

Life was meant to be lived, and Mello wanted to be _alive._

Whatever he did, he did with a grin and all the energy and bloody _life-force_ he had burning inside him, good or bad – whether it was trying to beat the fuckwit, making stupid fuck-up mistakes, or just plain fucking. Or even, on occasion, falling in love.

Yeah, Mello had been in love before. Madly, passionately, volcanically, energetically in love, then out of it just as suddenly a couple weeks later. Maybe some people would say that wasn't really love, but what the hell did they know – they hadn't been there.

He remembered that chick from Spain – she'd been hard to forget – he'd spent two and a half weeks consumed with her, with her zeal and passion for life, and with her fiery tongue.

And her tits. Those had been pretty fucking great too.

He'd enjoyed and loved her with everything he had, and when he left it was with no regrets and with a new limp from where she had tried to impale his quad with her lethal-heeled shoes. Matt had helped patch his leg up, laughing at him through his cigarette, then they'd moved on to the next case, the next country, the next adventure.

Then there'd been that guy in Egypt, among all the heat and shimmering sand and sweltering sun, his skin blacker than sin and his accent frankly one of the sexiest Mello had ever come across, even if he hadn't quite been able to place its origin. Their love had been just as scorching as the mid-day sun, free and hot, and it had ended in a spectacular scuffle that gave them both more than a couple broken ribs and blossoming bruises, not to mention jizz-splatters when the fight morphed into one last fuck.

In retrospect, Mello supposed his breakup with Light had been pretty mild in comparison to his norm.

But none of this was to say he always fell in love – for every time he tumbled into love, he had tumbled into empty, delicious lust infinitely more times. And love was great while it lasted, but it wasn't a big deal when it dried up. And again, maybe it wasn't love he'd felt those times, but whatever it was, it sure as fuck wasn't the same as just lust – Mello knew that much. Besides, he wasn't sure anyone who'd been shat out of Wammy's – himself included – was qualified to go around claiming competence in defining normal-human emotional interactions.

Maybe it was semi-love, he'd felt those times, almost-there-love, or maybe it was infatuation – infatuation and quasi-caring and brain-stopping passion meshed together and masquerading as love. If that was the case, it was pretty damn convincing. Love as Mello knew her was a sly, luscious bitch, sneaky and easily confused with something else – a sleeper of a car, seemingly commonplace but with some serious power beneath the hood.

Lust, on the other hand, if Mello was going to stick with the car comparisons, was like a drag car – blatant and with no pretenses, taking him fast and far but not meant to last for any length of time. And Mello – not counting this recent odd lapse of self-doubt he'd been going through – had no problem jumping in and out of lust with any person he came across that had a hot body and a willingness to play around.

Hell, the question wasn't when had he been in lust, now that he thought about it – it was when _hadn't_ he.

He thought of the Italian man who'd taught him how to _really_ use a blade – how to toss a knife with his eyes squeezed shut and still make it catch someone in the throat from thirteen meters away – then had fucked him to make sure the lesson stuck good and hard. There'd been the Texan girl with the delicious drawl, the college student from Ireland with a mouth a whore wouldn't be ashamed of, the model from New York who'd been half as smashed as Mello and twice as wild in the sack, and Christ, so many others: countless nights spent with countless strangers between unfamiliar sheets; innumerable hot, drunk pick-ups; endless hormone-driven encounters where the only thing between them was sweat and skin and instant lust, gone by morning.

Mello generally differentiated between his lust-fucks and his love-fucks by the length of time he dropped on the person. The one-night-stands, the two-night-stands – basically anything under about one-week-stands – those were obviously the lust-fucks. The ones who lasted _over_ one week, those were the love-fucks, the ones Mello's touch-and-go emotions cared for as more than just a hot body and a skilled fuck.

The exception to this was Light. Light had lasted over two months – but that was just because he was really hot. And really skilled. Mello had certainly gotten along with Light just fine, but it hadn't been love; Light had just been a long-lasting lust-fuck.

That was all.

Mello had _known_ when he'd first hooked up with Light that it wasn't going to be one of his love-fucks. It couldn't be – Light clearly hadn't been the type to fall in love, and love was no good when the other half wasn't just as wrapped up in him as Mello was in them. Not that Mello had wanted to fall in love with Light anyway; he had been busy building a contact network among the yakuza, with no time for something other than _fun_ and _casual_ and _hello babe, let's fuck now_. Light had been all those things, and Mello wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Yeah, maybe he still thought about Light once in a while, but that was just because he'd been pretty damn mind-blowing in bed. Any guy with a proper sex drive would have a bit of difficulty getting that out of his head.

That was all.

And it was such a fucking relief to know he hadn't felt anything serious for Light, because if he had he probably would've been feeling pretty shitty and confused right now. He _had _been feeling pretty shitty and confused, but that was just because of the crazy shit that had been going down the past couple weeks. It had nothing to do with him caring for Light or anything – Matt had just barely helped him remember that. Maybe Mello still thought it sucked they had broken up, but that was just because Light was the kind of fuck you didn't come across every day. It was just the regret of not getting to fuck Light anymore.

That was _all_.

Thank God for Matt. He was always there for Mello, to talk him down when his emotions got too out-of-control excited. He really was Mello's best friend, and had been for basically as long as Mello could remember. Sex may have been like chocolate for Mello, but if that was the case then Matt was all his other food, the shit that actually kept him _alive_. Chocolate was heaven-sent, the stuff of the gods, but even Mello knew it wasn't enough to live off.

Because Mello had learned at least one thing in life: lust or love, neither really lasted. But friendship – if it was with someone like Matt, that lasted for a fucking _lifetime_.

He glanced over at Matt, at peace behind the wheel as the evening-city whizzed past him. His window was cracked open a bit and the wind was playfully ruffling with the top of his hair and snatching at the stream of smoke from his cigarette.

"You're a prime rib, Matty," Mello said decisively, not caring that it wouldn't really make sense. "With some mashed potatoes and steamed veggies on the side. Or maybe a bowl of stew or something – some sort of nourishing shit."

Matt's eyes didn't flicker from the road being eaten up beneath their tires. "I don't think I wanna know," was all he said, his free hand tapping his cigarette out the cracked window, and Mello grinned.

The rest of the ride was silent – an uncomplicated, comfortable silence – and Mello wouldn't deny the easy relief he felt now after his earlier talk with Matt. He wasn't much of one for regrets, most of the time, and it had been particularly shitty to suddenly find himself gasping for air beneath the unfamiliar weight of the _what if_'s and the _I should've_'s and _if only_'s:

_What if_ I'm some sort of sex freak.

_I should've_ not fucked up so badly with Light and cheated on him.

_If only_ I hadn't lost control and slept with that fuckwit.

Mello wondered how long he would have been caught beneath the pointless self-doubt if not for Matt.

Well he was done with that. He definitely wasn't going to sit around wasting his time regretting shit that was already done and over, shit that everyone else had already moved on from. _He_ was the only one still bitching about anything that had happened – Near clearly was having no problem moving past their night of drunken fucking, and Light… Well, Light had said it himself: it had just been fucking between them. Light had no doubt already moved on, probably already on to a new boyfriend.

There was a little dip in the road then, making Mello's gut twist unpleasantly for a moment as the car swooped and bounced a bit, then he glanced out his own window, his eyes hardly seeing the passing city.

He remembered when he'd first met Light. He remembered the poor sod the brunet had been dating then. It had been clear to Mello the guy was completely dick-over-balls in love with Light, and Mello had wanted to laugh at the idiot for falling in love with someone who was so clearly in the game just to play. Mello had just snickered, reading the signs and knowing a breakup was imminent between those two, and sure enough, two weeks later had found Light shaken free from his clingy boyfriend and being seduced into Mello's bed – if a grin and a _let's fuck, babe_ could be counted as seduction, that was.

Or maybe Mello had been the one seduced.

Yeah, it had definitely been Mello who'd been seduced.

"Dude, you've got a really dopey look on your face right now. What'cha thinking about?"

Mello shook himself from the grip of his memories and found Matt glancing between him and the road with lazy eyes. He grinned.

"Nothing. Just kinda hungry, y'know? How about after we're done at L's we grab some take-away and bring it back to my place?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Matt agreed easily. "L's probably got his…guy coming by later tonight, so I was gonna ask you if I could crash at your place again anyway."

Mello's ears pricked up in interest. His sex-life was just getting back on its usual no-regret track, and while his curiosity about just who the hell L had found recently that was so fucking fascinating may have been momentarily forgotten in light of his own problems, but it certainly hadn't been abandoned.

"Hey, that reminds me," he spoke up quickly, his mouth snapping the words out before the topic could pass by un-snatched. "What the fuck is going on with L, anyway? I mean, about this guy he's banging. This is L we're talking about, right? Since when does L fuck _anyone_ for any length of time? And that painting, the lighthouse L had – that was done by whoever he's sleeping with, right? Don't give me that shit about Watari painting it."

Had they not spent the majority of both their lives at the other's side, Mello probably would have missed the odd expression that passed briefly over Matt's face. It was an unexpected mix of an annoyed grimace and an unhappy frown – and…was that apprehension? – and it was gone before Mello could take a good gander at it, but he caught enough to have his curiosity piqued.

But Matt just shrugged, his face relaxed and normal once again, so much so that Mello found himself doubting he had ever seen the strange expression in the first place.

"Yeah, I think the guy he's screwing painted that. Other than that, I don't know too much. You know how L is – when he gets horny he just needs to fuck for a bit until he gets it out of his system, yeah? This time's just taking a bit longer than usual."

Mello wasn't sure if he entirely believed Matt – or even if Matt entirely believed himself – but Matt was giving him clear _drop it_ signals, and since he was pretty much the only person in the world Mello listened to when telling him to leave a topic alone, Mello shrugged and did just that.

He couldn't imagine what the big deal was, though he in all honesty wasn't surprised L was being so tightlipped – L inexplicably preferred to keep his private life just that, private, and while he didn't go out of his way to keep it so, he certainly didn't ever trouble himself to dish out on the details either. L was habitually a sneaky, secretive bastard, accustomed to working in shadows and in the murky grey smudged-line of a boundary between what was legal and what was not, and that carried over into his personal life as well.

Actually, now that Mello thought about it, L didn't really have a personal life. All he had was his detective work and his random fucks when his libido got too bitchy about reminding him he was a human, which was why his current behavior was so screwy. It was more than just being horny and taking longer than usual to flush it out – even Mello, having been gone for a week, could see that. It was fucking obvious, really.

"So, is L in love or some shit like that?"

Right, so maybe he didn't quite _drop it_. Matt-signals or not, Mello had a boundless curiosity when the enthusiasm for nosiness struck him, and the situation was a little too can't-leave-it-alone interesting at the moment for him not to poke at it.

"Mels." Matt was using that tone he always used when he thought Mello was being an idiot on purpose, and it made Mello want to grin to like one now. "Despite how well teenage-girl hormones have brainwashed the rest of the world, people don't actually fall in real, honest-to-god love in a week."

"Sure they can. I do it all the fucking time."

Matt's eyes slid over to him for the briefest of moments, a quick appraisal as Mello flashed him his best idiot-grin, then he blinked and his eyes were back on the road once again.

"Point in case, man."

Mello chuckled, warmth bubbling pleasantly somewhere beneath his ribcage. It felt good to be back with Matt, after his week of forced exile. Christ, no wonder he had snapped and fucked Near – he always felt a bit unsettled when Matt wasn't by his side, more likely to do stupid shit without thinking and less likely to do _brilliant_ shit without thinking.

"Dumbass," he snorted playfully. "All right, so not love. But seriously, what's going on? Does he have, I don't know, an L-crush or something?"

Matt's lips twitched in a smile, and Mello watched him flick another load of ash out the window. "Heh. An L-crush? That's disturbing."

"You know what I mean," Mello laughed, his fist pounding playfully on Matt's shoulder. "Just, does he _like_ the guy, you know? More than his regular fucks, I mean."

Matt's half-smile faded just a little, hardly even noticeably, and he hesitated just enough to contradict his next words. "…I don't know, Mels. I haven't really sat down for a heart-to-heart with him, yeah?"

"Yeah, but you've actually been here the past week, instead of, I don't know, _shoved away in another country or something._ And it's not like you've been walking around with you fucking eyes sewn shut, right? I'm not asking for an in-depth analysis into L's deepest feelings – God knows even I don't wanna go _there_ – I'm just asking about what you think's going on. 'Cause it's kind of strange, you know? Just looking for some man-gossip," he said with another wide grin.

Matt returned his grin without taking his eyes from the road.

"You sure you got a dick down there? 'Cause I'm pretty sure there's no such thing as 'man-gossip'. You're worse than an old woman, Mels."

"Ah, lay off. Don't tell me you aren't curious about what the fuck L's been up to."

"Dude, you know I've never understood your fascination with L's sex life. So no, can't say I'm really all that curious."

"And it's fucking _bizarre_, man. I mean, it's _L_ – who _wouldn't_ be at least a little curious? Even just morbidly curious."

"I dunno, maybe someone sane?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't explain why _you're_ not curious," Mello protested, and his face pulled into a pleased, teasing grin.

Matt chuckled and flicked his eyes over to Mello once more. "Douche," he laughed.

A silence settled contentedly between them for a moment, broken quickly.

"Still," Mello said thoughtfully, his eyes returned to his window. "It's kinda crazy to think about, isn't it? L being in any sort of relationship."

"Mm," Matt hummed, in semi-affirmation. "Guess so."

Mello's eyes darted back to Matt. "No, really think about it. Even just hypothetically, can you imagine L being in a– Christ, in a _romantic_ relationship? Doing, y'know, _normal romantic_ things? Not just the sex, which is weird enough alone to think about, but all other shit too. It's like, how does the greatest detective in the world show someone he loves them? Catches them a rapist on Valentine's to lock away?"

Matt snorted, and the car glided easily around a turn in the road. "Dude, that's fucked up."

"See? That's what I'm saying! It's _L_ – I mean, I can't even imagine the type of person who'd even be able to keep up with all his shit, let alone actually like his company. Don't get me wrong, I got a lotta respect for L, but even I wouldn't want to be his…ah, fuck, his _boyfriend._ Jesus, it weirds me out even thinking about L in the same sentence as 'boyfriend'."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't?" Matt put in casually. "L's just not the relationship type, y'know? Short-term, maybe – but long-term? I don't see it happening. He'd get bored eventually, and once the infatuation passed he wouldn't like the way the relationship mucked around with his lifestyle. He's all set in his ways, right? I don't think he'd actually want someone else in there for good, breathing down his neck."

"So you think that's what's gonna happen with this guy he's seeing?"

"Jeez, Mels, I don't know. They've only been fucking around for a week – I think it's a bit early to have this sort of conversation. 'Sides, I'm starting to feel my balls shrivel just talking about girly shit like this."

Mello laughed – the sight of the irritated frown pulling at Matt's brow was too much, making him look like a peeved little kid – and decided to finally let the subject drop.

"Heh. I guess we'll just have to wait and see, huh? Either way, it's gonna be pretty fucking entertaining to see how this all turns out. Anyway, where'd you wanna pick up food tonight?"

"Don't care, s'long as it's not where we went last time – that shit was more grease than anything."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Matt just snorted and Mello felt a grin pull on his lips at the sound; a week was too long to have Matt gone from his side.

"Fuck, I missed you, man," he said happily.

And a small smile tugged up a side of Matt's mouth, though he kept his eyes on the road. "Yeah, I missed you too."

* * *

><p>When they got to the hotel, Matt dropped him off at the front with a half-smile, telling him to go on up ahead and verify the outcome of their L-bet, that he'd park the car and be up soon to gloat over his winnings, so Mello grinned back and hopped out.<p>

"Right," he said. "And when I win, keep in mind I want dark chocolate."

Matt just gave a snort of laughter and waved him off, then the car rolled away and Mello turned up to head into the hotel, a grin still lingering on his lips.

The half-grin lasted all the way through the lobby, through the wait at the lift and even into the lift itself, despite the fact that for half the ride he was squashed between the wall and a man who more resembled a sweating cow than anything else, and the grin was still playing around his mouth as he strode down the hallway towards L's suite.

It really was incredible, if he thought about it, how much a little time with Matt could affect his entire disposition. It had only been a matter of a few hours since he'd left the hotel, walking down this same hallway, and now he was returning in a vastly different mood and even starting to feel excited about working on the case again which had bored him so terribly before.

Really, a musical murderer. Fucking genius idea. He hoped L had something interesting for him and Matt to do that evening, because he was feeling fired up about catching this murderer now.

Swiping his keycard with a little more enthusiastic force than necessary, Mello swung the door open to L's suite and happily hummed his way through the entry area and into the main rooms, grin still stubbornly clinging to his lips.

What he found there froze any remnants of his grin dead on his face.

* * *

><p>It was with a sigh of relief that Matt let the Chevelle sink into the dimly-lit parking space.<p>

His fingers flexed slowly on the wheel; his hand slid around to click the key out of the ignition. The engine fell silent, a sudden stillness cutting through the stale garage air.

Matt was vividly aware of how easily he'd gotten off that night.

They'd not only skated dangerously close to certain topics Matt had spent weeks – no, months – happily avoiding and could have gone on avoiding just as gladly, they'd actually dragged those topics out into the open air, as if either of them really wanted to face them. Well, almost out into the open air – never quite out into full exposure, all aspects never quite unveiled completely. And he'd really prefer to keep it that way, thanks very much.

He wondered distantly, as he sat in his silent, stilled car, reluctant to leave its comfortable embrace, if he was the only one in their little fucked-up band of detectives that saw what was really going on among them all currently. Did anyone else really see the complete picture of this big-ass mess which was slowly tangling them all, this mess of lies and secrets and should-have-been-casual affairs, with Yagami Light standing in the center of it all twisting the strings in his long fingers?

He doubted it.

Mello was happily deluding himself – not that Matt was complaining – and not letting himself realize that maybe Light had been something different for him than his usual flings. It was so like Mello it actually hurt a bit, somewhere low in Matt's gut. Mello faced the outside world with the kind of grin that made mountains seem molehills and anything possible, but he had never much been one for knowing himself, knowing his own insides, so to say.

As for Near…Matt never knew what to think about Near. He'd always been something of an uncertainty among them, keeping his cards close and his thoughts to himself. Who knew what Near thought of the muck of a situation with L and Light and Mello, or if he even thought about it, and really – Matt didn't think any of them gave a fuck what he thought. Even if Near was going to use his knowledge of the situation and Mello's feeling to his own advantage (though Matt couldn't see a reason for him to do so), there wasn't much Matt could do to stop in him until he made move and showed his hand, so there was no point bothering his brain with that at the moment.

And L – well, L was brilliant. Even having grown up among certified genius children, when Matt sat down and actually thought about L's level of sheer intelligence he was sometimes just a little bit scared off his arse. But L didn't care about things like mundane social interactions and people's emotions, didn't bother to apply his easily-bored intellect towards puzzling such things out unless there was something about a particular situation which intrigued him.

L liked to harbor the illusion of omnipotence, particularly in his work, but the honest-to-god truth was he was just a smart, observant human with little patience for things that bored him. And his successors' love lives had never held much intellectual appeal for him.

Deciding it was time to catch up with Mello and get the day finished up, Matt pushed the door open and began to slide out of the car, cigarette loosely between his lips, and as he did he felt his phone slip sneakily from his pocked and fall back onto the seat. He made a lazy swipe for it, and, as he shambled away from the car, door slamming shut, his fingers flipped it open.

_One unread message._

In a flash of gut-twisting instinct, Matt knew what it said.

But he read it anyway, his thumb already moving to open the message up, and as his eyes skimmed the brief words a lead ball settled somewhere in his stomach.

_Not necessary to return tonight. Will be otherwise engaged. See you tomorrow, early. L._

Well, fuck. The tangle of strings had finally tightened, before Mello could get free.

Mello was not going to react well to this – no matter how indifferent he thought he was to Light after the breakup, no matter how much L brushed it off as merely a potential nuisance if Mello found out, Matt knew the scene was going to be messy, emotionally and physically draining, and potentially end in numerous injuries.

And Mello was armed tonight – Matt was completely positive about this.

Matt's legs were running before his phone was even back in his pocket.

* * *

><p>Light was sitting on the couch.<p>

L's couch.

Next to L.

Sipping a glass of sweet red wine.

Light was _sitting_ on _L's_ couch, his familiar cool eyes caught with L's over the rim of his goblet, his body relaxed and comfortable as though it were perfectly natural for him to be found drinking alcoholic beverages in the presence of world's greatest detectives, perfectly natural to be sitting next to a crouching _L_ on a couch mere inches away from him.

Mello wondered where his heart had run off to, because it didn't feel like it was in his chest anymore. Maybe it had gotten sick of his lungs and moved up into his throat – no, he was pretty sure that was his stomach relocating next door to his esophagus, so it must have been that his heart had moved down into his stomach's old house.

Yeah, that felt about right.

He didn't think this rearranging of his insides was particularly healthy. He'd have to ask Matt if it was normal to feel like someone was playing a fucked-up game of musical chairs with his organs, because he really didn't think it was doing his bodily systems any favors.

He was aware, in the back of his mind, that he was thinking bullshit nonsense, but that was what his brain did when faced with a shock he couldn't process yet. He kept getting stuck on thoughts like _Light_ and _couch_ and _what the fuck_ and _L_, but none of it had settled together into anything comprehensible that made the least bit of sense.

Light was here, in the hotel, with L.

Drinking wine, of all things.

With L.

On the couch.

With L.

As the pair on the couch noticed him lurking in shock in the doorway of the room, their eyes darted to him, surprise narrowing Light's even as it widened L's.

Mello was instantly struck by how absolutely opposite they were. Opposite, but there was something perversely _familiar _and _right_ (no, _wrong_) about the way they completely contrasted each other, Light with his classical beauty and poise and elegantly crossed legs and L with his wild hair and unconventional good looks and gargoyle pose. Yet the intensity in their gazes, rendered unchecked by the surprise which was even now fading from their faces, was the exact same – but none of this explained why Light was sitting on L's couch in L's suite drinking L's wine.

With L.

And still Mello's mind didn't put it together, not yet, not until he noticed L's hand frozen on Light's thigh and an irritated frown etching itself into his unabashed face, not until he witnessed the quick, questioning glance Light threw L under sly lashes.

And then it all arrived at once. It came at him in an unavoidable rush he couldn't stop, and _fuck_ Mello felt so stupid, so fucking stupid as all the obvious pieces fell together – L looking up Light's picture after the breakup, the painting done by L's _lover_, who he'd gotten together with right around when Mello and Light split, the way Matt kept avoiding his questions about who L was fucking, and _Christ, how had he not put it together earlier?_ – and his hand was shaking, he wanted to smack something, maybe himself, and yell and yank L's fucking _hand_ off Light, and distantly, in a voice that sounded a lot like Matt's, he knew he was being unreasonable but he _didn't fucking care_.

But for some reason, all that came out of his mouth at first was a perfectly quiet, "I thought you didn't paint, babe."

And Light must have somehow known what he was talking about, because he answered, "I didn't say that – I just said I didn't paint very well." His cool eyes didn't slide away from Mello's face again, even as he said to L, calm and composed, "Ryuzaki. How do you know Mello?" There was a _you goddamn bastard_ lingering blatantly in Light's tone, and Mello realized Light must not have known of his connection to L – no, wait, hadn't known of his connection to _Ryuzaki_.

L's eyes left Mello's face to shift over to Light's in a way that should have been at least a little guilty but Mello knew – _fucking knew_ – wasn't, and he said, "Mello is in my employ, like Matt, Light-kun."

Looking back, Mello wasn't quite sure what it was about that sentence that set him off.

Maybe it was the complete lack of shame in L's tone, maybe the familiar way he said Light's name (_Light-kun_), or maybe it was the realization that Matt had _known_ about this thievery but not said a word – maybe it was all of them, maybe none.

All Mello knew was once those words were out and dropped and _there_ in the open, it was like his control had suddenly snapped, any leftovers of the surprised numbness that had temporarily overtaken him completely gone.

Then he was moving, barely aware of it, barely aware of anything but L's hand on Light's leg and the urge to wrap his fingers as tightly as possible around L's pale throat.

"What the _fuck_, Ryuzaki?" his mouth was saying, and the back of his mind thought L should be glad he remembered to use his alias, even though it would've fucking served him right to be outed like that in front of his _Light-kun_. "You goddamn _fuckslut_. What the hell makes you think you can steal other people's boyfriends, you fucking son of a bitch?"

L was watching him with those stupid impassive black eyes, not moving, and Mello was going to punch him so hard he'd wish he would've just shot him.

Or at least, Mello was _going_ to until there was a body in his way, a hand curled on his arm and Light's face glaring at him. Cool, controlled anger was radiating from Light, a barrier to Mello's own hot rage.

"Excuse me?" Light said coldly, an eyebrow raised. "In what twisted version of reality do you have a right to say any of that?"

Mello ignored him, focused on trying to shove his way past to L, but Light was a stubborn bitch and wouldn't move.

"Just shut up and move, babe," Mello growled when it was apparent he wouldn't get past, his eyes flicking up to his ex-boyfriend's chilly features then back to glare at L. "This has nothing to do with you – I'm just gonna punch Ryuzaki for being a boyfriend-stealing asshole."

Light's voice was like ice as he spoke, smooth and frosty, his hands moving to Mello's chest. "Calm down and listen, Mello. Stop flying off the handle like a little kid throwing a tantrum."

Mello's eyes jerked to Light's, Light's familiar – two-month-long familiar – eyes, and before he knew what he was doing he had his gun out and the barrel pressed to Light's hip.

"What part of 'this has nothing to do with you' did you miss?" he snapped out, his temper not directed at Light but irritated at the intrusion. And Light's face hardened; he was as still as a stone wall against Mello, strong, elegant hands frozen against his chest.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing pointing that at me."

Mello was suddenly very aware of the gun clutched in his grasp, the gun he hadn't even been aware of drawing. But it felt good in his hand, cold and comforting like some sort of fucked-up security blanket, giving him a sense of ease and power, a defense against the onslaught of uncontrollable emotions. He wasn't going to use it – of _course_ he wasn't – but it felt good in his hand, familiar in his grasp, so it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

He ignored Light's question, just as he ignored Light's body pressed against him and his own urge to let his hands touch that body again, that body he hadn't even realized he'd missed so much until it was in close contact with his senses again, that body that L had snatched away before Mello was done. His eyes flickered to L, still tucked up on the couch and watching him with impassive eyes, though his indifference was tainted by a mostly-concealed wariness like one would give a wounded wild animal.

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, Ryuzaki," he snarled, feeling very much a wild animal and not giving a damn. "Light was…Light was _mine_, and you fucking stole him, then sent me off to France so you could stay here and fuck around with _my _boyfriend – didn't you? _Didn't _you, bastard?"

"Mello," L began, his voice deadly serious, but he wasn't given time to finish as Light cut in sharply.

"Shut up, Ryuzaki. I'm talking to Mello right now, so stay the hell out of this conversation, please."

Mello had a twist of dark glee at the knowledge that Light was pissed with L now, but it paled in comparison to the other emotions flooding his system at the moment – and as much as he enjoyed hearing Light snap at L, it was L he had a bone to pick with.

"Quiet, babe," he shot out again, eyes not leaving their burning hold on his fucker of an employer. "I told you this has nothing to do with you. This has to do with the fact that Ryuzaki thinks that just because he's goddamn – well, _you know_ what I mean – he thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants, just stroll around and steal whatever he wants." Mello doubted Light, in fact, knew what he meant, that he was referring to L's bloody entitlement complex from being a genius and the greatest detective in the world, but L got his message loud and clear and that was what mattered.

L's eyes acknowledged the accusation without an ounce of shame, but Mello noticed his gaze flickered calmly down to the gun still tucked into Light's hip for a moment.

"I'd rather you didn't damage those hips, Mello, as I am rather fond of using them," he murmured quietly, and Mello felt Light stiffen next to him even as his own mind was suddenly overtaken by a flood of realization as to what _exactly_ it meant for L to be fucking Light.

"Goddamn it, Ryuzaki," he heard Light sigh.

Mello's left hand was trembling just a little with emotion, but his right hand, his gun hand, was steady as a stone as he pulled it from Light and leveled it directly on L – who, to his credit, didn't even blink. In fact, Mello suspected there was a hint of a satisfied smile slipping away from the edges of his mouth, but he had much more important things to worry about.

Cold rationality never had a place in situations such as these, and Mello had already felt his own fly out the window well before that point, so he felt no cough of conscience as he cocked his gun, the gun he of course wasn't going to use. He didn't know how to explain the ugly jolt that had shot through his gut, nor did he know where the intense flashflood of rage coursing through his system had come from – no, fuck, he did know, of course he knew. He was fucking pissed off because L thought he could prance around doing whatever the fuck he wanted with anyone he fucking wanted, including steal people Mello was fucking, and Mello was damn tired of it.

"Put the gun down, Mello," L said, taking a sip from the wine glass Light had abandoned when Mello had first started heading towards he couch with violent intentions. "And let's discuss this."

"Like fuck I will," Mello growled back instantly. "Goddamn rat. Just where the fuck do you get off, _Ryuzaki_? _Ryuzaki_. Fucking _Ryuzaki_. I oughta shoot you right now, _Ryuzaki_." His scorn was sharp and bitter and mocking each time he said the false name, his lips twisted in a scowl.

But Light's hand was on his wrist – the wrist without the gun – cool and tight, and Mello's eyes darted to his.

"Mello. What the hell is going on with you? Do you honestly think you can barge in here and spout off all this shit about Ryuzaki stealing me, like I'm some fucking object? You cheated on me, Mello, and we broke up. That's it. You've got absolutely zero right to say _anything_ about what I do, so stop acting like I was your property and just put that gun down and _back off_." His eyes flicked to the gun still pointed at L like he wanted to make a grab for it, but he was a policeman's son, Mello remembered, and knew better, just like he had known better than to grab the wrist with the gun. "Why are you this angry, anyway?"

Mello shook Light's grasp from his arm and mentally shoved away any of Light's rationality he felt creeping into his brain. "Christ, babe, obviously because my fucking employer thinks he can fucking yank my boyfriends out from underneath me! And you – it's barely been a week and a half, and you've already jumped in another relationship?" Mello wasn't really upset about Light being in a new relationship – of course he wasn't, he'd expected it, it was fine. What he was really upset about had nothing to do with Light at all; it was just L, L thinking he could steal Mello's fucks, that Mello was pissed at.

But Light didn't seem to understand that, as his hand tightened around Mello's wrist. "We were over, Mello," he said slowly. "You can't accuse him of 'stealing me' when we weren't even together anymore, so stop acting like I'm a possession or something to be stolen. God, you're the _last_ person I expected to be clingy."

"I'm not being clingy!" Mello insisted before the final, _false _word was even completely out of Light's mouth, trying to make Light understand, even as he started to feel his own chest grow colder in impending realization. "I'm pissed off because he thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants!"

Sharp brown eyes pierced his, and a single eyebrow rose.

"Then what do you call this? What do you call this flipping out over finding out I actually moved on after we broke up? It was just _fucking_, Mello. You knew as well as I did we had nothing serious, and you wanted it that way too. Didn't you?"

Yeah, hadn't he?

He was mad now because L had acted like an entitled dick and stolen his boyfriend, not because that boyfriend was specifically _Light_, because he hadn't had any serious feelings for Light. Of course he hadn't.

Of course he hadn't.

But Mello could feel it, then, could feel rationality seeping back into his mind like a cold, midnight current in a rising tide, and he could feel realization washing slowly in as well, unavoidable as it wrapped through his mind.

Oh.

Oh.

_Oh._

His gun slowly dropped to his side, and his eyes landed on Light – of course, _fucking of course_ – who was watching him carefully in turn, and Mello let all the little pieces of reality he'd been so determinedly ignoring for weeks, months, fall back into place.

Light. He'd– fuck. It hadn't just been lust. It had been– it hadn't just been lust.

Oh.

Mello had known when they'd first met that Light wasn't the type to get serious, not really, despite all his talk of monogamy and _when you cheat on me, then I'm done_. So Mello had slid right into pace with him, not getting serious himself, and it had been easy – he did it all the time – so easy he hadn't even noticed as, during their weeks together, Light had gradually become more interesting and more important than just a really good fuck. Christ, he'd told himself so many times it was just because Light was really good in bed – and it had worked, he hadn't even minded joking about L wanting to fuck Light back before he knew L was actually serious. But it wasn't working anymore, wasn't working now that the reality of Light in someone else's hold was slapping him in the face, and he couldn't deny the jealousy ripping through him, and all his happy half-lies were crashing down around him now, and fuck, facing reality wasn't fun.

Mello just stared at Light as his brain churned and rearranged itself. Light stared back silently, eyes guarded, and Mello knew he was making some realizations of his own about Mello's feelings.

He didn't know what L was doing but he didn't give a fuck anyway – he couldn't maintain his volcanic rage at L, not when it was his own fault for cheating on Light and not realizing his emotions had involved themselves until it was too late, not when he already knew L was a sneaky bastard who had no problem doing things like hooking up with his ex-boyfriend days after they split and sending him off to France so he wouldn't know about it.

"Well, _shit_," he said feelingly, eyes locked with Light.

And Light smiled, a beautiful little half-smirk that tugged the side of his mouth.

"Yeah," he agreed.

Nothing else needed to be said; their eyes understood each other, and their glance was an acknowledgment of realizations and a door closing and a _good luck_ all rolled into one. This was Mello's problem now, and they both knew it.

Mello could almost smile back.

He smelled Matt – a mix of warm and bitter, the scent of his cigarette smoke that followed him around perpetually – before he heard him. When he turned he found him leaning against the doorway, casually smoking but his eyes watching Mello very carefully.

And Mello really could smile now, his lips easily forming into a tiny curl, and he said, "He wasn't a lust-fuck, was he Matt. Light. He wasn't a lust-fuck." He asked this despite already knowing the answer, because it was Matt and Matt knew him better than he did himself sometimes, and he needed to hear the confirmation in Matt's voice.

Matt sighed, a cloud of smoke escaping his mouth in a quick haze, and shook his head.

"Nope. No, he wasn't, Mels."

"Right. Okay. Thought so."

And for some reason, at that moment, Mello didn't feel anything but relief. It sure as hell wasn't fun, but it was better – so much better, always better – than being caught in lies and fake realities that pretended to be okay while really picking away at his insides without him knowing why he felt so shitty. It wasn't fun, but now that he knew what was going on he could face it and deal with it and move on, like he always did, and it would be just like with that guy in Egypt and that chick in Spain and everyone else who fell under the category of 'love-fuck'.

His eyes rolled around the room: first to L, still crouched exactly where he'd been when Mello first strolled unprepared into the room, his bony hand still curled around the stem of Light's goblet as his black eyes watched Mello like a hawk watched a mouse; then to Light, his mouth quirked and his eyes amused and guarded at the same time; and finally to Matt who – _god, no way_ – had pulled his DS out of his pocket and was already flicking his thumbs over it like he had nothing better to do.

But his eyes slid up to Mello's, lazy and careful, and he said, "Ready to go pick up that greasy shit?"

And Mello's grin was back full-force then, and he nodded easily. "Yeah. And I guess I owe you a pack of cigs now, huh?"

"Yep. Don't think I'm letting you weasel out of that one."

Mello looked at Light again, and it hurt a bit but now he knew why, and it was going to be okay, as long as Matt helped him sort himself out and ate greasy Chinese food with him and stayed by his side to keep him grounded and sane as he faced the world and worse – his own stupid, twisted-up insides.

Mello grinned. "See you around, babe," he said, then with a glance at L that was both a non-apology and an agreement of truce, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, Matt pausing to say something to L Mello didn't hear before following after.

* * *

><p>Light's eyes turned to L's, and L did his best to not shift beneath their hard gaze.<p>

"I'm curious," Light said with misleading casualness. "Just how does your…employee have a semi-automatic pistol in Japan, _Ryuzaki_? Keep in mind my father works with the NPA, and I _will_ know if you feed me any bullshit gun laws."

Bugger. This was coming out of Mello's pay.

"It is just a lighter?" he tried, not truly expecting Light to back off.

Light, of course, just raised an eyebrow.

"Try again."

L sighed. "I'm afraid that information, Light-kun," he said in mock-seriousness, "is classified. Unfortunately, you will have to torture it out of me."

A suggestion of a smirk was playing on Light's lips, and he sauntered closer, close enough that L could smell the faintest hint of Mello's scent lingering from earlier. He felt something twist inside him, and as Light's hands slowly began pushing him onto the couch he let himself be guided down, carefully keeping the goblet level to stop the wine from spilling. Then Light's knees were digging into the couch on either side of L's waist, and his hands were gently prying the drink from his grasp.

Light tossed the rest of the wine back in one smooth gulp.

"You're a stubborn, annoying bastard, Ryuzaki," he sighed when it was drained. "God knows why I put up with you."

L frowned.

"That was not a very sexy response, Light-kun. I believe the situation called for something less like an exasperated parent and more like a seductive dominatrix."

"Shut up, Ryuzaki," Light said, but then his smirk was there, twisting his lips, and L felt that familiar shiver dance along his spine as Light pulled him up for a kiss that did just that.

L knew, in the back of his mind, that the situation was far from over – he recalled Matt's parting words to him, a casual _see you tomorrow_ that sounded more like a threat than anything – but for now Light's tongue was stroking his and Light's hips were against his and such matters could be worried about later.

His fingers found the buttons to Light's shirt, and he slid into a world where nothing mattered but the feel of Light's body against his own as he worked to erase any trace of Mello's remaining scent.

* * *

><p>A<em>uthor's Note: Huh, what? I haven't updated in a month? You're outta your goddamn minds. Check the dates, bitches – it's been three weeks and <em>_**seven days**__. That's right, you heard me. Okay, joking – this chapter is very late, and I'm actually really sorry, but please don't shoot yet; I come bearing smutty peace offerings of Etched sex. Yes, yes, that's correct, I did say smut, so easy, easy, put your guns down…thank you._

_Right, here's the deal. I posted a little oneshot the other day about the bit in Etched when Mello and Light got together, so if you're interested and haven't done so already, go check it out – it's called _Babe_ and can be found on my profile. It's not necessary to read for the plot of Etched; it's just meant in a supplementary sort of way, so read it if you want a little glimpse into Mello and Light's relationship (or if you just want to read some fun Mello/Light sex) and don't mind the bitter irony of reading them get together after reading __**this**__ particular chapter. And yes, it contains actual, detailed sex – not this leave-it-to-your-imagination shit I pull here – so don't read it if you don't like that sort of thing._

_Okay, I think that's all. Thanks for reading! And again, sorry for the wait. But I'm pretty sure most of you don't have permits for those guns you pointed at me, so you don't shoot and I won't tell. Deal?_

_I need to work on my bargaining skills._


	13. Forwards and Backwards

_Author's Note: Hello there. I'm going to be annoying at the start of the chapter this time, as well as the end, because I have an important announcement and by the time you get down to the bottom it will be too late. Right, here we go: there is actual sex in this chapter._

_Just kidding! Sort of. It's still not actual sex, but it's a bit more almosty than the rest of the almost-sex in this story thus far, so I thought I'd throw a warning in. Honestly, if you've gotten this far in the story and still haven't run away, I don't think a little more descriptive sexual content or the word 'nipple' is going to scare you off, but I do try to be a responsible writer._

_I know I said there wouldn't be sex in this story, but it's not really sex (hello, meet my rationalization – it serves me well in life), and, well, it __was__ important. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

_Forwards and Backwards_

* * *

><p>It wasn't until Matt was dropping the bag of take-away onto Mello's counter that Mello finally spoke up for the first time since leaving the hotel.<p>

"I need to shoot something."

Unsurprised, Matt just threw a leg over a counter stool and started digging into the bag, pulling out his Styrofoam-contained food and not bothering to glance over at the restless blond pacing back and forth in front of the sink.

"Yeah, I thought you might," he replied simply, pulling out some disposable chopsticks as well and snapping them apart.

There was a huff of annoyed air from Mello's direction, one Matt had heard many variations of in the past, and despite the situation he felt a wry grin trying to twist at his lips. Instead, he popped open the lid to his food and eyed it warily.

"No, really man," Mello insisted next, as though Matt could have possibly thought he was joking after all the times he'd witnessed Mello take out his aggression with his trigger finger. "I gotta shoot something _now_. I'm getting, uh, itchy."

Mello's boots were quick and light on the tile floor as his pacing showed no signs of slowing; Matt poked at his stir-fried noodles carefully, avoiding a piece of tofu that seemed to be glaring at him malevolently, and kept his voice relaxed as he answered.

"Right, thanks for the warning. You want some of this shit?"

He heard Mello's boots stomping towards him then, and before he knew it his friend's hands were pressed on either side of his face, forcing his gaze up to meet his.

"Matt," was all Mello said, but the desperate look in his serious brown eyes made up the difference.

Matt could see, as much as he didn't want to, that all of Mello's emotional backlog from the scene at the hotel was finally catching up with him. Now he needed a distraction, needed to stop thinking if only for a while, and that usually meant he needed his gun, the gun Matt had casually slipped out of his hand as they'd ridden the lift down to the hotel lobby.

"If I give you it back," Matt informed him offhandedly, eyes lazily flicking back to his food as his hands gently knocked Mello's away from their hold on his face, "are you gonna do anything that could get us in tricky, um…legal trouble?"

There was a pause as Mello thought and Matt started the fruitless fight to bend his food to the will of his chopsticks, outwardly calm even as his insides tensed for Mello's answer. After all, it wouldn't be the first time Mello had tried to take his frustration out by shooting up things that weren't meant to be shot up without the local police getting themselves in a lather, and they had gotten into quite a bit of trouble several times for property destruction, which L had then refused to help them sort out – said some sort of shit about "learning consequences of their actions" which Mello had promptly ignored and Matt had shrugged off because he really wasn't the one who needed to be told anyway.

Matt really hoped this wouldn't be like that one time Mello was pissed and ended up taking a potshot at some apparently endangered animals. But then the silence was broken easily a second later by a huff of laughter, and Matt felt himself relaxing.

"Course not, Matty," Mello assured, and Matt more heard than saw the reluctant grin in his voice. "I'll just put the suppressor on and go shoot some junk outside or something, shit no one will even notice if it gets a few extra holes. It's just, I just, I kinda need to stop thinking for a bit." The grin was fading now from Mello's voice and his hand was beginning to tap out its agitation on countertop, and Matt abandoned his fork in favor of digging in to the take-away container with his fingers.

"How 'bout instead," he suggested, slurping up a few noodles, "we head up to Light's place and raid his fridge? 'Cause I don't think you've got anything in here but chocolate and booze and tomato sauce, and now this shit, I suppose," he tacked on, wiggling his messy fingers at the Chinese food they'd picked up, "and I promise you none of that is going to sound good, or even edible, in the morning." Shit, it had been a gamble, mentioning Light, one he was even now beginning to regret before the words were even completely gone from his lips, and he hoped it wouldn't toss Mello deeper into his brooding, twitchy state of distraction.

But Mello laughed, and Matt heard him turn away to look out the window above the sink.

"Heh. Fifty quid says he notices, guesses it was us, and comes after us. He's pretty fucking smart, y'know."

Yeah, Matt knew. But Mello needed a distraction, and talking about Light and how he was intelligent enough to spend time with at least two Wammy-raised geniuses without boring them wasn't a very good one.

So instead he scooped another bite and said around his mouthful of noodles, "No doing – you still owe me on our last bet, and besides, all I've got on me is Japanese cash."

Mello waved a hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, I also accept IOUs or sexual favors."

"Sexual favors it is, then," Matt grinned, and he rooted into the take-away bag and set Mello's food at the seat next to his. "Though you oughta know, I never service anyone with an empty stomach."

Mello laughed. "Yeah? Never realized you had such picky standards, Matty," he said, but he sat down and fished out his own chopsticks.

"Yeah, well," Matt shrugged. "When you're whoring yourself out you gotta have standards _somewhere_. Might as well be about food."

"Okay if I got herpes, then?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, herpes are okay. Wouldn't want to get too picky."

They shared a glance, and a beat later they both dissolved into laughter, Mello's loud and free and Matt's more of a wry grin and quiet chuckle but every inch as sincere as Mello's.

"I think we're a bit weird, man," Mello said once his laughter faded away, digging into his rice with newfound enthusiasm.

"Considering our backgrounds, I'd say we're pretty damn well-adjusted."

"Yeah, not saying much though."

Matt gave a snort of agreement as he shoveled another bite of fried noodles into his mouth. "No shit."

"Hey Matt," Mello said, talking around his own food as well and somehow managing to grin mischievously at the same time, "speaking of our backgrounds – better not let L find out you're walking around with only yen on you. Remember his stern little spiel about always carrying the currency of at least five nearby countries?"

"Yeah, I remember, but I also remember that time you tried to bribe that taxi driver in San Francisco with banknotes from Madagascar without noticing, so I think you'll understand if I don't start trying to make myself into some kinda walking world bank."

"C'mon, I was a bit buzzed that day!"

"Mels, I've seen you shoot a target dead-on from twenty yards away when you were half plastered."

"Yeah, well, that's different, obviously."

Matt just snickered and shook his head, taking another bite and hoping this turn of conversation didn't remind Mello of his urge to wreak havoc on the world with a gun. Luckily, Mello just grinned at him and turned his attention back to his food.

"You're great, Matt, you know that?" he asked, his smile lingering on his lips.

"Yeah, I know," Matt nodded.

"Good."

A comfortable silence settled over them as they both dug into their food, then Mello threw him a knowing glance.

"I still want to shoot something, though."

* * *

><p><em>Sunday<em>

There was something dangerous in L's bed.

Something warm, something breathing, something beautiful, something _fascinating_, but ultimately something dangerous. Something curled up and fast asleep and unaware of the rather thoughtful, wary scrutiny L was throwing its way, and something to which L was quickly becoming addicted.

And L's instincts, well-honed and long-trusted, were flashing enough warning lights at him to rival a Rockefeller Christmas tree.

Had he been paying attention a bit earlier, he would have been more on his guard the instant his instincts had started itching at the back of his mind in warning. And usually, having long since learned to trust his instincts – especially after that messy affair in Romania with the cat burglar and the Rottweiler – L would have paid immediate heed. But L had found Light to be far from usual, so he was hardly surprised that it was only now, at precisely 3:27 am, that his danger instinct was able to finally cut through fully to the forefront of his mind and present him with several worrying facts.

The effect, he found, was rather like being dumped in a tub of ice water.

No, that analogy was far too abrupt, he decided. It was more like being lowered inch by naked inch into that same ice water as numbness gradually overtook him, and he was left with a cold lump of sobering realization lodged firmly in his gut.

Light was slowly worming himself into L's life.

Not consciously, perhaps, but nonetheless he was already gradually working his way past L's natural defenses, and he was doing it simply by being himself: gorgeous, engrossing, interesting, captivating. _Dangerous._

It was hardly serious yet, L freely admitted, still in the premature stages when interest was very first becoming engaged, but he couldn't deny that it was there, full of dreadful potential. If he wasn't careful, what he had with Light could easily develop into something messy, complicated, and more importantly, something capable of stealing his lifestyle freedom away. In other words – a relationship.

Not a solely sexual relationship – like the simple, easy relationship they were just playing around with now – but something with expectations and emotions and necessary compromises and everything that L had always avoided and still had no desire to dip his fingers into, even with someone like Light – perhaps _especially_ with someone like Light, who after such a short acquaintance had already proven very effective in shaking L from his usual behavior.

It was very lucky, if somewhat ironically so, L reflected, that Mello had walked in on them tonight (or rather last night, he amended, acknowledging the dull red light of the clock on the nightstand), as he suspected he could have otherwise easily slipped slowly into Light's unconscious snares until one day he looked around and realized he was half living with Light and more than half in love with him and that by then it was too late to escape cleanly.

The sex last night had been very good, as it tended to be with Light. Better than good, actually, so good it had adequately distracted him from finishing certain trains of thought, which trains were only now being completed, now that Light was mentally far away in sleep and L had nothing to prevent his brain from making its inevitable conclusions.

After Mello had left, walking firmly despite the slightly dazed look which had sneaked into his eyes and with Matt at his back, L had been content at first to let Light take the lead. He had been happy to let Light push him down and straddle him, to focus all his attention and aggression on him, to lead his tongue in a slow, languid twist of a dance, pausing occasionally to exchange increasingly breathless banter. Light knew how to do very interesting things with his tongue, and the warmth of his thighs against L's hips hadn't been something L was going to argue against.

But then his brain – L's brain which had refused to disengage even when arousal started to sink its warm claws into his gut – his relentless brain had started remembering and thinking and spinning, running through the events of the evening, and suddenly L hadn't been able to get the image out of his head of a familiar gun pressed against Light and of Mello's body pressed almost as close, blond hair brushing against soft brown.

L was – in essence – a logical being. Yet even he was aware of the unavoidable nature of emotions, that as a human he had and would experience such internal upsets. Rather than ignore or suppress them, he had always felt that the best, most efficient – most logical – course was to address them and move on, as emotions tended to become more reactive the longer they were pushed aside. Rather like an attention-starved toddler, L had always thought. So when L's brain had so helpfully pulled up the memory of Mello's body and gun against Light, both a reminder of the past and a vague threat of the present, he had done as he'd always done and begun dissecting the muddy whirlpool of emotions it brought with it.

First to be addressed, he had decided as his fingers had started pushing up Light's back and spreading against the smooth skin, and probably the most recognizable of the emotions, was possessiveness.

Possessiveness was not an emotion with which he was at all unfamiliar. He had long ago made it his business to determine his own character traits, his own accustomed reactions and tendencies, and childish possessiveness was one trait which he'd always been on speaking terms with – he knew this, had known this for a long time, and had already accepted it.

Therefore, this emotion had been unsurprising as it tore through him – that urge to claim and mark what was his, however temporarily. And yet, he'd realized as he had let his hands grip Light's thighs, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs as Light bent down to steal his mouth for another kiss, there had been an undertone to the possessiveness, something dark and subtly overwhelming, and it had taken L a moment to realize that it was a new, separate emotion that needed to be isolated from the whirlpool and analyzed as well.

It had been jealousy.

Jealousy was an emotion often linked with possessiveness, yet despite this it was not a very well-known acquaintance of L's. He had always thought jealousy to be a futile sentiment, illogical and unnecessary, as it was by definition directed at objects not within his grasp.

L was never bothered with such objects outside his reach; it was pointless. He was possessive of his toys, yes, but once the toy was out of hand, no longer his, feelings of possessiveness only served to drag him into unnecessary gloom. As such, he had never bothered caring about what hands had touched his temporary sexual partners prior to his interest engaging in them, save for any related medical concerns, and he had certainly never cared what hands touched them once his interest in them had died. There was simply no reason to do so, no reason for him to feel jealousy of any sort.

Until then.

When he had realized that it was jealousy he was experiencing, it was like a flip had been switched within his head. His mind had instantly and all too easily supplied him with image after image of unknown hands running against Light's body, just as his own had been doing even as those images had struck him.

His fingers had dug their nails into Light's back, an involuntary action he hadn't and still didn't want to look into too deeply, and Light had given an aroused little gasp of pain.

It was then that L had been unable to maintain the sedate, seductive pace Light had been leading them in. He had sat up abruptly, Light surprised as he but settling comfortably enough on his lap, his legs still tucked on either side of L's hips, and L's hands had twisted into Light's hair as he jammed their mouths together, somewhat brutally.

In light of the circumstances, it had hardly been surprising when, instead of being useful and perhaps continuing to analyze his emotions from a detached standpoint, L's brain had decided to drink in that little gasp and to remember that instant when the cold metal barrel of Mello's gun had met Light's hip and to remind L of all the hands that had touched Light before L had even known he'd existed. And then his little whirlpool of emotions that he had been so efficiently trying to tidy up had risen together and turned against him, almost consuming him in a wave of jealousy and possessiveness and an overwhelming, base sense of _mine,_ and by that point his cool rationality had been clinging on by a spider's thread.

With his long fingers curled and entwined in Light's hair, L had practically assaulted Light's mouth, trying to consume him, trying to mark a claim simply by virtue of his intensity as though sheer concentration alone was enough to declare possession, trying to- he didn't even know what he had been trying to do. He simply had known that there was a fire blazing quietly, urgently within him, and he had wanted nothing more than to watch it burn and devour Light in its flames until he couldn't turn his attention anywhere but to L, couldn't think of anything but L, couldn't bestow that razor wit and intriguing mind and celestial beauty anywhere but solely, completely on L.

But however tenuous his rationality's hold may have been it had still been present, telling him to slow down, to think, to guard himself even as he attacked Light, and L had at least tried to absently heed its call even though he hadn't fully apprehended the warning quite then. He had been too occupied with kissing Light to do much else.

It hadn't been a frenzied kiss, nor a frantic one, like the kinds that resulted in more bitten cheeks and knocked noses and mashed lips than anything else, but it had been deep and deliberate and demanding, wholly unrelenting. And when Light had recovered from his surprise and started responding enthusiastically, trying to thrust his tongue into L's mouth and explore with awakening dominance, L had let it in and immediately sucked on it, hard, with a smooth rhythm until Light was melting into his hands like a candle beneath a flame.

His grip in Light's hair had tightened even as Light's body had relaxed against his, his fingers twisting through the silk-soft strands like they never wanted to let go.

"Mm, _nghn_."

Then Light had made a little noise that sounded enough like a moan to make something within L growl, something a little dark and stubborn and unapologetically animalistic, and he had released Light's tongue and tugged Light's head back until his throat was perfectly aligned for L to scrape his teeth directly on his pulse point.

And Light had positively groaned.

L's tongue had swirled against his throat next, followed by a sharp, warning nip from his teeth as Light's hands had started slowly tugging up his shirt, trying to gradually work it off him. Light had barely even paused at the nip before resuming his efforts just as steadily and with a distinct air of a mischievous child trying to test his boundaries; but when L had then sunk his teeth even deeper into the vulnerable skin Light had gasped and clutched at L's sides, attempts at stripping L abandoned in favor of letting him do what he wanted – which had been to try turning Light inside-out solely by his mouth working over his neck.

L had been slightly surprised, at that time, when Light had capitulated so relatively easily to his nonverbal demands; perhaps he had recognized that L was not in the mood for the teasing, testing games they usually got up to. Whatever the reason, L was glad.

Light's shirt had already long since had its buttons worked open by L's nimble fingers, and it had hung haphazardly off those golden shoulders. L had worked his mouth slowly down Light's neck until his face was pressed gently against the smooth, warm planes of his chest, inhaling Light's scent. He had been able to feel Light's lungs at work, pulling in and releasing air at a slightly heavier, more rapid pace, and when he had turned his head to press his cheek against the skin, he had heard Light's heart thudding steadily against his ribs.

L's arms had slipped from Light's hair, then, to wrap around his body and pull his torso closer against L's own body. For a moment he had simply closed his eyes and engulfed himself in the sensation of another body close to his, the shared warmth and the intimate proximity to the other's vital systems, and he had felt Light rub his hands along his back, his surprise evident.

"Ryuzaki?"

L hadn't answered and Light hadn't said anything else, and L had been glad that he hadn't questioned him, hadn't called him on his strange behavior that probably had seemed very similar to hugging but actually was not.

Quickly, L had lifted his head from Light's chest and, feeling this distinction was suddenly very important to be made clear, had chased any thoughts of hugging from Light's mind by tugging Light's shirt half closed on one side and latching his mouth onto the freshly-covered nipple.

Light had gasped quietly, a quick intake of air; L had felt his hands sink of their own accord down to Light's hips, pulling him closer until they were right up against L's own, his legs pressing their heat into L's sides, knees driving into the sofa.

Very pleased with this arrangement, L had awarded his hands' enterprise by letting them have free reign on Light's legs, and they had promptly taken advantage of this by rubbing as hard as they could up and down the outsides of his thighs, still trying to pull him even closer though that had been physically impossible without either or both of them losing some clothing.

L had already known that Light had pleasantly sensitive nipples, but it had still been gratifying to feel just how much Light enjoyed his attentions as he rocked his hips into L's and L sucked and nipped, his hands never slowing but never speeding up either.

Light's hands, for their part, had been too occupied clutching at L's hair to do much else. And when L had traced his tongue around the hard bud of Light's nipple and then raked at it with his with teeth, Light's hands had become demanding enough with their tugging that L's had needed to temporarily abandon their task in order to wrap around Light's wrists and pin them behind Light's back, for lack of a better place to restrain them.

Normally, L would have had no reason to stop such aggressive behavior from Light and would even have relished it, but not then – then he had been solely focused on soothing the raging possessive fire burning within him and on consuming Light, overwhelming him until he couldn't even breathe without thinking of L, and he couldn't have had Light distracting him.

Light's reaction to his hands' sudden capture and imprisonment had been rather contradictory, his hips grinding harder against L's and his body pressing closer even as his mouth snarled out protests and abuse. L had swiftly put an end to that, sucking Light's nipple hard through his shirt and cutting off his stream of discontent. He'd heard a sharp hiss of air being sucked in between teeth, and when he pulled back and glanced up at Light, he'd found him grinning down at him with a pleased, feral glint in his eyes.

It was at this point in his remembrances, his urgency having faded and his fire long since chilled with realization, that L tended to mentally frown at himself when he remembered what had happened next – as if the not-hugging hadn't been quite enough.

Numerous times during the course of his life, L had heard people describe the feeling of their brains completely, unstoppably shutting off all remnants of rational thought and wholly giving over to their primal instincts, those passionate urges to tear or kill or fuck or devour; until last night, he'd always thought it a poor excuse for someone unable to simply face the truth of their actions and take responsibility. _I couldn't help myself, I was taken over by rage. I couldn't stop it, I was blinded by lust._

L had felt the effects of powerful emotions and hormones before – particularly in terms of sexual instincts. He knew what it was like to see things through a haze of burning lust, his body seeking only satisfaction at whatever cost. But always, always, his brain was in the background, moderating and overseeing to some extent, a safeguard against thoughtless actions that he'd regret later. Its efficiency could be slowed down but it was always there, ensuring his carnal instincts yielded to even a degree of reason.

At least, until last night.

When he'd seen that ferine grin twisting Light's lips, seen his face flushed and his eyes alight with arousal – but still sharp as ever, his gorgeous intelligence not lost even in the haze of excitement – reason had completely, utterly abandoned him, leaving him at the mercy of his base impulses with nothing to temper their influence.

Even now, L couldn't precisely remember what he'd done, though the memories were still heavily tinged with vague feelings of retrospective disapproval.

Maybe he'd tossed Light to the sofa and pinned him against the cool leather, fingers curling tightly around strong, slender wrists. Maybe he'd rolled him onto the floor and slowly, deliberately covered the skin of his neck with enough bite marks that even a blind man could have clearly read the message of possession. Maybe he'd eaten every inch of his sweet-salty skin until the taste was forever locked on his tongue. Maybe he'd done all of these things, maybe none.

He remembered a few things clearly.

He remembered dragging his lips agonizingly slowly along the inside of Light's forearm, Light's back arching like a satisfied cat. He remembered whispering with deceptive calm in Light's ear, the words bypassing L's brain entirely and dropping the moment they formed on his tongue. He remembered feeling Light shuddering against his body, a grin on those reddened lips as Light didn't even try to combat the lust consuming him, wearing his arousal like a second skin.

"You're beautiful," L might have whispered.

"You're mine," seemed more likely.

He remembered feeling hipbones beneath his palms as his tongue danced inside a bellybutton. He remembered his teeth sinking into the exposed skin of Light's inner thighs, jeans having been impatiently tugged out of the way.

He remembered digging his fingers into skin and muscle, probably leaving bruises.

He remembered Light several times trying to turn the tables on him, trying to flip their positions like they'd done during nights before; he remembered pressing Light harder into whatever surface had been supporting them at the time until Light gave up, and Light had just panted and grinned up at him beneath his gaze.

He remembered watching Light's face as he fell to pieces beneath his fingers. He remembered the way Light's eyes had lit with such breathtaking, delighted desperation that L had felt them searing into his body, in a way he had never before experienced.

It had been like he hated Light – but no, of course that wasn't right, it was just the intensity of the emotion, the concentrated passion of his possession and jealousy and lust.

And this – this was why Light was dangerous. Because he challenged L in ways he hadn't expected to be challenged, because he threatened his cool logic and previously untouchable rationality. Because he barely even knew Light and already Light was changing his behavior, worming into his mind and soul and life, and L found it in himself to resent the intrusion even as he remembered trying to suck Light's own soul from his body – for after all, what was Yagami Light but an interesting stranger? What right had he to mess with L's life?

And he was young. Almost too young – still in his teens, though it was easy to forget when faced with his intelligence and confidence and sexual maturity. Young enough to be idealistic, adaptable enough to change his mind and want something more out of a relationship than casual sex, and potent enough to threaten L's already set ways.

This was not reasonable. This was not logical. This was not like L.

This was dangerous.

He needed to withdraw. He needed to pull back emotionally, to stop this from going any further, he needed to-

He needed to withdraw.

This wasn't in any way safe, and while L was no coward, neither was he a fool; he knew when risks were worth taking and when they were not. And this, decidedly, was not worth the risk.

But that didn't mean the sex had to stop. Now that he'd caught these dangerous emotions trying to take hold of his brain, he felt reasonably confident he'd be able to stop their influence – nip things in the bud, so to say, before they could develop into anything more than a vague, potential threat for the future. At the very least, he could monitor the situation, and he could easily extract himself if things began turning too perilous.

Light was dangerous, but L was capable of protecting himself. It would just require a little more diligence than previously supposed.

Satisfied with this resolution, L unfolded from his crouch on the bed and slipped into the kitchen.

He needed a slice of cake.

* * *

><p>"Ungodly hour for a murder, wouldn't you say?"<p>

"Mm."

"Ghastly business."

"Mm-hm."

"You'd think murderers would want to take a rest on the weekends like the rest of us, but no, they've got to be the unusual, stubborn ones – going around killing people at positively unholy hours of the day. Personally, I can think of a whole host of things I'd rather be doing on an early Sunday morning, and not one of them includes getting out of bed before the sun is even properly out and about."

"…Hm."

"I'm not bothering you, am I? 'Cause I wouldn't want to bother you. You look very busy and all, scribbling away on that. Or can drawing not be called 'scribbling'? I guess 'doodling' works just as well. Except, you know, I don't mean to make light of your vocation or nothing by calling it 'doodling'. You know I don't mean any disrespect?"

"Nhn."

"Good. 'Cause, well, it'd be a shame to offend a stranger I don't even know. 'Specially when I don't mean any offense. And if we're going to be working together in the future we've got to make sure we get along, don't you think? I think so."

Light nodded absently, his eyes not leaving the careful grey lines on the page snapped in a borrowed clipboard on his lap, and didn't answer. He was caught, at the moment, in that odd, almost trance-like state of relaxed concentration which had become as addicting as any drug, letting the will of his pencil meld with him until he wasn't sure where it began and he ended. Only a small portion of his attention was listening to the prattle being steadily hurled him – mostly out of habit, having never liked being caught unawares – though he found himself beginning to resurface as the finishing strokes started making themselves known, a sense of deep contentment and triumph sneaking into the edges of his mind.

And really, even if he had been giving the prattle his full attention, he probably still wouldn't have been unduly bothered.

Today, he was in a good mood – and not just because of the drawing on his knee.

He was in a good mood despite the chatty idiot next to him on the predawn-chilled park bench, despite his slowly numbing fingers, his gloves having been abandoned in order to properly hold his pencil. Even being woken up at five o'clock on a Sunday morning and asked to come do a sketch at a crime scene had done nothing to put a stopper on his mood. The fact that he had been forced to come in his clothes from the day before had done nothing to detract from this.

Really, really good sex could apparently do that to a person.

"So, how long have you been working with the police down here? Back where I come from, we didn't have an artist on the payroll. Would've been handy, though."

Though it certainly seemed as though the talkative new transfer – who had introduced himself as Sato Aki and promptly hijacked the seat next to Light then proceeded to start up a stream of non-stop drivel, never stopping for answers Light wasn't inclined to give anyway – was determined to test the limits of this sex-induced patience.

"Wow, it's cold, huh?" he chattered on next, his voice only a bit grating as it squeaked by Light's ears. "Your fingers are all purple. Maybe you should stick them in your armpits and warm them up or something. That's a good sketch you've got there, by the way. Good shading, like my art teacher used to say. I took an art class when I was a kid, you see. The teacher was always hung up about the shading. I think that's the only thing I remember from the class. Well, that and how to have an affair with three of your students' parents at the same time, but I don't think we were really supposed to be learning that bit."

Light might have thought the reason for the new officer's transfer had less to do with simply changing to a new city and more with being forcibly thrown out of his old one, if not for the fact that he was fairly certain this 'Sato Aki' didn't really exist.

Next to Light, this apparent transfer abruptly hopped to his feet then and brushed his stolen navy-blue uniform pants off from the bench, a bit of stray gravel crunching beneath his boots. He had a lanky build, Light discovered, and a too-wide smile, and he looked like an overly friendly, slightly deranged scarecrow as he grinned down at Light.

"Well, it's been really great to get to know you, kid, but duty calls, you know? See you around, huh?"

He gave a cheery wave and turned to leave down the paved walkway towards where the other officers were milling about, mostly obscuring the recent corpse from view, and finally Light spoke.

"By the way," he said casually, keeping it soft enough that it wouldn't carry beyond the intended recipient, "if you're planning on using this sketch to describe the suspect to L, you ought to know the witness was lying when she gave me the description of the man she saw leaving the scene, right before finding the body." He looked up from his sketchbook and found the man frozen, his eyes widened behind the dark rims of his glasses. "Just so you know."

The man recovered quickly – Light would give him that.

"Wow, you gave me a start," he laughed easily, body looking instantly relaxed and boneless. "But you probably shouldn't joke about L, I hear he can be pretty paranoid about those sorts of things."

"Mm-hm," Light hummed indulgently, and his lips curled in mocking sympathy. "It's not really your fault, you should know – I already knew you weren't a real officer," he informed him, completely disregarding the attempt at denial the man started up. "Mogi-san let me know they had contacted L the instant they found the piccolo head lodged in the victim's throat and that L was sending an operative down to poke around and maybe get a photo of the sketch – and, honestly, it was pretty easy to figure out from there that you were the guy he sent. Especially since I know for a fact there haven't been any new transfers for the past six months."

The man appeared to be thinking very quickly, eyes careful, and suddenly he smiled ruefully. "Well, shit," he finally decided. "That was a waste of time." His too-big grin, too-friendly behavior were shrugged off like a winter coat, his grating voice dropped – and suddenly 'Sato Aki' was gone, the façade only convincing when combined with the personality, and there was only a stranger in obvious disguise left behind.

"It would seem so," Light agreed, smile now a smirk. "But it was very interesting to hear about your adulterous art teacher despite this."

The man sighed and scratched at his head carefully, which Light guessed was probably covered by a black-haired wig, and likely an itchy one at that, judging by the way he was digging into now with his fingers.

"You know, you could've let me know earlier and saved me the effort of all that nonsense chatting. I never know which officers have clearance to know I'm not legit, but I wouldn't have thought the sketch artist would be included in that." He was still speaking in a perfectly natural-sounding Japanese accent, but Light suspected it wasn't actually his native tongue – though what that might be, Light could only guess.

So he shrugged. "It was amusing."

"Well then," the man said, shoving a hand in his pocket and watching Light carefully through his glasses, "what'd you mean the witness was lying?"

Light just smiled, the smile his sister liked to affectionately call his 'my-plans-are-coming-together-and-I'm-about-to-prove-once-again-that-I'm-a-genius smile' and which Mello had liked to just as affectionately call his 'come-fucking-sex-me-up smile'. But then, Mello had tended to claim about two-thirds of his expressions were invitations to fuck, so this had hardly been surprising.

"Wait a minute and you'll hear," was the only thing Light said.

The operative-in-disguise looked like he was going to speak up again and make up for this lack of things being said, but he lost his chance when Mogi, the detective assigned to the case, suddenly joined them with a face a bit grimmer than his usual serious expression, and Light casually got to his feet.

"Sorry, Yagami-kun, but it looks like we've wasted your time today," Mogi frowned with a nod towards the sketch in Light's hand, and Light discreetly made sure the clipboard was angled away so he couldn't properly see the contents. "The witness you spoke with has just broken down and confessed. Turns out she lied about seeing someone sneaking out of the trees just before finding the body-"

"Uh, hold up a tick," L's man interrupted in a murmur, digging into his coat pocket and pulling open a vibrating phone. He flipped it open and scanned the contents. "It's L," he announced, as if he received texts from world-famous detectives every day – and, Light considered with a sort of surreal realization, he probably did. "He says it's time for me head off, since all you've got is a copycat and not the real musical murdering maniac, so I guess I better scram."

The phone quickly buzzed again, before anyone could speak.

"L also says for me to quit embellishing his messages – alright, I admit," the man flashed a quiet half-grin, barely visible above his tightly wrapped scarf. "I coined the 'musical murdering maniac' phrase. Well, good work today," he waved, and with that abrupt farewell he immediately turned on his heel and slipped off down the path, away from the lights and taped-off zones and milling policemen. In his wake, Light and Mogi shared a quick glance, Mogi looking a bit dazed for once and Light not blaming him, though an amused almost-smile was playing around his own lips.

"I wonder if you ever get used to working with…that," Mogi gestured vaguely at the retreating back. "I hadn't even told him yet she was a copycat."

Light smiled fully now, this one the smile-smirk Ryuzaki would most likely recognize, his 'that-was-an-interesting-game smile'. It was also his 'and-I-think-I'd-like-to-play-again-maybe-next-time-with-different-rules-and-a-few-forged-paintings smile', though he doubted even Ryuzaki would have honestly caught that particular facet to the expression.

"You could ask Yoshimoto," he suggested, his smile quieting. "Apparently it was his case taken over last time."

Mogi just grunted, and Light found he appreciated the brevity when compared to some of the chattier detectives working under his father.

"Is it alright if I head home, then?" he asked after a brief but surprisingly companionable silence, and Mogi nodded.

"Sorry to call you down on a Sunday for nothing," he said. "Hope your lover didn't mind."

Light's hand had already started waving the matter aside before the rest of the statement suddenly clicked with his brain. He froze, smirked, then lifted a single, inquiring eyebrow.

Mogi gazed back, unsmiling, but there was trace of something amused gleaming in his eye. Then his eyes flickered, just for a moment down to Light's neckline, and Light remembered Ryuzaki's mouth all but eating that very spot last night. At the moment, there was only the smallest hint of a telling mark sneaking out beneath his layers of clothing, easily mistaken for something else, but Mogi had apparently caught it.

Light felt his smirk widen as he remembered the gender-neutral term Mogi had used. Light wasn't surprised – Mogi had always been an observant man, if rather unimaginative. His use of 'lover' didn't necessarily guarantee he was aware of Light's preferences, but-

Mogi was blushing. Just a little, but definitely a touch of heat rising to his cheekbones, and his eyes were just slightly shifted from Light's.

Never mind, then – Mogi definitely knew.

"He didn't mind," Light answered deliberately, and he was pleased with the lack of reaction from the steady detective.

Light didn't fear Mogi outing him to his father or really doing anything at all with the information; Mogi had always been the sort to mind his own business and – more importantly – let others mind theirs, and in situations such as this Light was glad for the predictability. Some pieces in any game, after all, had to be the steady, reliable ones; otherwise the game couldn't run smoothly. And life, Light had always believed, was nothing but a grand game laid out for those who could play it.

Mogi coughed, blush just starting to fade, and Light let his smirk fade away as well until it was only visible in his eyes.

"Well, good work today," he said, echoing the stranger's words from before.

Mogi nodded farewell, his own smile implied, and Light freed his sketch from the clipboard, which he returned to Mogi along with the pencil he'd borrowed as well. But he kept the drawing, and with a final nod he headed down the path of L's man gone before, carefully tucking his sketch into one hand as he strode unhurriedly in the direction of the park exit.

A sudden sweep of wind twined passed him, ruffling his hair and tugging at his clothes and trying to steal the paper from out of his grasp, but Light just clutched tighter and grinned into the gust, relishing the feeling of raw energy – untamable and breath-snatching – it brought with it.

When the wind subsided again to a gentle shush, Light shook his sketch free of any almost-creases.

Normally, Light would be feeling a little buzz of annoyance in the back of his mind right about now. After all, being called away at obscene hours of the morning and asked to do a sketch no one actually needed was not how he liked his weekends to be wasted, thank you very much, even if it meant an interesting second-hand brush with the world's greatest detective that still had his heart beating just a touch quicker than usual, if he was being honest. But he was in a good mood.

And it was, again, to put it simply, because of sex.

Really good sex.

Best sex of his life, actually. Granted, as he was only a short while from his nineteenth birthday, this title was liable to be reassigned later, but for now at least he felt perfectly comfortable classifying last night as the best sex of his life.

That he was still mildly pissed off at the whole Mello business – quite the can of worms, in all honesty – did not one whit temper his lingering satisfaction.

Because in truth, it hardly was important. Light had gone into this quasi-relationship knowing full well that Ryuzaki was keeping things from him – even his true name, for that matter. It hadn't been important then; it wasn't important now.

It wasn't important that Ryuzaki was actually Mello's ambiguity-shrouded boss about whom Light had occasionally heard little snatches of complaints from Mello. It didn't matter that Mello apparently carried a gun in a country well-known for its stringent gun laws. It didn't matter that Mello had decided to make things messy and move his emotions a step beyond 'casual' – unfortunate, perhaps, but in the end unlikely to do little more than make things a bit awkward if he happened to run into Mello anytime soon.

It didn't even matter that Light'd had a gun pulled on him for a moment last night, before Ryuzaki decided to be a protective, possessive ass and provoke Mello's gun to point at himself instead.

Light was curious, yes, in a vague sort of way, why a self-proclaimed "computer software engineer" would have a gun-toting employee (though, this was Mello he was talking about – he was hardly surprised), but Light was patient, and he and Ryuzaki had from the very beginning had an implicitly explicit agreement to not dig into each other's business. It was an agreement of sex and interesting company and nothing more, exactly how Light preferred his relationships – anything else simply got in the way.

Although.

Light had never before encountered someone like Ryuzaki. Light had never had sex with anyone like he had with Ryuzaki. He had never enjoyed, almost to the point of craving, anyone's company like he did with Ryuzaki.

And, unexpectedly, he was beginning to think that maybe it was time to consider other possibilities in terms of relationships. Maybe something more long-term, something a bit more involved, something more than just a casual, sexual affair that ended at the drop of a hat. Maybe something kind of like what Mello had apparently not realized he'd wanted. Maybe one day.

It as an idea to toy with – nothing to act upon right away – intriguing and a little exciting and perhaps worth looking into.

Light still wasn't interested in a grand, messy affair, with heartfelt declarations and lives completely intertwined, but he could see himself being involved with Ryuzaki for quite some time without getting bored, and that alone was worthy of some thought.

Maybe something a little more committed wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Light wanted to see what the big deal was about love after all.

Love – such a silly, overused word. Light usually hated the taste of it on his tongue, sweet and sickly. It was a word immature teenage girls tossed around as justification for their selfish behavior, thinking it would wipe away their insecurities. It was a word these same silly girls resurrected and pined after when they were middle-aged – older and drained and sorry for themselves, not having realized that happily-ever-after's ended at the wedding for a reason, having thought their own fairytales would come true without them required to do anything more than find a prince and get married. Love had always been for people who couldn't stand on their own, couldn't like themselves without someone else doing it first.

Light had never wanted any part of it, not really.

But perhaps there was more than one way to fall in love. Ways that didn't entangle matters, didn't impede goals, didn't make humans into pathetic, dependent creatures.

What was love, anyway? An arbitrary concept in the end, wasn't it? Poets, dreamers, and fools had mused on the concept for centuries, longer, but when it came right down to it none of them had the right to decide what love was for the rest of the human race. Light didn't have to follow the definitions of long-dead people who were probably idiots anyway; he could make love whatever he wanted it to be.

And maybe one day he could fall in love with Ryuzaki. And maybe one day Ryuzaki could fall in love with him.

Light wasn't a fool. No matter how wonderfully, overwhelmingly intense Ryuzaki's behavior had been last night, Light knew that possessiveness wasn't the same thing as love, not even the same as desire for love. He had no delusions there – Ryuzaki wasn't looking for a serious relationship any more than Light had been, and their association was still caught rather firmly in the stage of Two Strangers Shagging Each Other's Brains Out. But there was a potential, there, hiding in the seams, beneath all the sex and banter and dizzying exchanges, and, well, Light had always been one for seizing a hold of opportunities.

It would be a challenge convincing Ryuzaki he wanted something more, he knew, but Light's policy towards challenges tended to be the same as his one towards opportunities.

Light pulled in a slow, delicious breath, his feet crunching pleasantly, quietly on the pavement beneath his shoes as he walked; he smelled cold morning and fresh, wet grass and potential – it was invigorating.

And when he rounded a turning in the path and found L's man from before, all thick glasses and scarves and long limbs and a wig, leaning against a tree with his hands shoved in his pockets, Light felt an irrepressible smile rise to his lips, tainted with just a hint of mischief, though it was more a general playfulness inspired by his mood than directed at anything specific.

There was something about the man's particular pose that Light found vaguely familiar, he decided absently; it twisted through his mind, searching for a correlating memory, but before he could even pay attention to the thought the man had straightened up and turned his disguised eyes to him.

"Hello again," Light murmured, not pausing as the other fell into step with him.

"How did you know the witness was lying?" L's operative asked, apparently preferring to cut right down to the chase. "You knew before the detective did – don't try to deny it."

Light had no intention of denying it.

"I know faces," he said simply, with a slow smile and a glace sideways at the other man. "And her face was lying. Besides, I've done enough of these sketches to know when someone's making up a face on the spot and when they're actually remembering." He paused, then countered, "How did you know it was a copycat and not the real killer?"

The man shook his head. "That was L, not me."

Light was smirking now, pre-adrenaline beginning to slip into his system without his permission. "I know," he said. "I wasn't talking to you."

The man was silent for a second, the only sounds their footsteps and the stillness of the morning, and that was all that was needed for a quiet buzz from his phone to interrupt. Light could have laughed in triumph. Instead he settled for smirking.

L's go-between glanced at Light with an unreadable expression, his eyes guarded and his lips a thin line, then he heaved a quiet sigh and pulled out his phone, flipping it open with a resigned air.

"He says it should have been obvious to anyone with eyes, electronically planted or not," he read off. "Says the copycat may have used the same method but was actually much more stupid, breaking down and confessing so easily, even making the classic mistake of returning to the scene of the crime. Also, he says evidence so far has indicated the real killer to be male, and this one was a girl. Should have been clear she couldn't have been the real one – therefore a copycat, someone taking advantage of the current situation." He snapped his phone shut.

In spite of himself, Light felt a little thrill chase through his spine at the thought of L being on the other line. Maybe it was dangerous for Light to call attention to himself, but probably not; this was hardly enough to link him to any future forgeries that may catch the world's fickle, sensational attention.

But it certainly was fun, and a bit exhilarating.

"Is that why you didn't actually draw the face that woman described – because you knew she was lying?"

Light's eyes slid to the other's face sharply; the man stared forward unblinkingly. After a moment, Light smiled.

"Yes. How did you know the sketch wasn't from the witness's description? And don't try to pass this one off as L's."

The man shrugged, his hands firmly in his pockets. "Just a hunch."

They walked in silence a few minutes more, nearing the end of the park, and Light's brain was spinning quickly.

The man was perfectly right: Light hadn't been sketching out the witness-cum-murderer's description today, having realized it was pointless. Instead, he'd taken in her description politely, taken a seat a little bit away from the main noise and bustle of the crime scene, and, having borrowed the necessary sketching tools Mogi had provided for him (there had been no time to pick up his own from his apartment), he had finally successfully drawn a certain stubborn, impossible face while he waited for the rest of the force to catch on that she was lying.

He had drawn _Ryuzaki's_ face, really drawn it, and the goddamn thing actually had the unconventional man's essence steeped in it wonderfully, completely, perfectly. It was finally done. And he hadn't even needed the picture he'd taken on his phone to finish it.

He hadn't had time to properly look at it yet, enjoy it in its completed form, but he would. It might end up needing a few adjustments, but he was sure that overall, he had finally conquered it.

It was deeply satisfying, to say the least – though at the moment it was more a purr of contentment in the back of his mind than anything else, waiting to be addressed and celebrated in the privacy of his own home.

After a few minutes of silent walking, the path parted, and Light and the stranger looked to each other.

Before they could speak, the phone buzzed one more time. The man looked almost exasperated as he pulled it out – or at least what Light could see of his face did – and he snapped it open.

"He says to thank you for your assistance in this case, and the Aioi case a few weeks ago. He says you do very 'exact work'. And trust me, that's meant to be a compliment."

Light experienced the very strange sensation of satisfaction and cold paranoia entwining together and completely hijacking his adrenaline. This translated itself into a smile, a soft, quiet smile that most people would have simply called his 'pleasant smile' and very, very few would have recognized for what it was: his 'you-have-no-idea-what-you're-dealing-with smile'.

"Thank you," he said with his smile in place, speaking to both of them, speaking to neither of them. Then he nodded, a graceful tilt of his head, and without another word continued down the left branch of the path. He didn't look back, but a few seconds later he heard the stranger take the right.

And Light went home, triumph in his hand and quiet anticipation in his veins and something new, exploratory in his chest – a _perhaps_.

* * *

><p>"You went beyond your instructions today, Matt. I'm sure you can understand that I am not pleased with this."<p>

"Yeah, well it turned out fine, didn't it? No problem."

"If by 'fine' you are referring to the moment when you decided to disregard instructions and unnecessarily converse with the hired police artist, who then saw through your cover and could have compromised you, then I believe you require a new definition of 'fine'."

"Are you upset because it was Light?"

"You should be very glad he didn't recognize you."

"Look, don't get your lovely strawberry-print knickers in a twist, L. Point is, he _didn't_ recognize me, and I didn't compromise anything, so it's all fine, right? My disguise was perfect, my own mother wouldn't have recognized me – well, y'know, not that she would anyway."

"What could have possibly possessed you to engage Yagami-kun at the crime scene? All you had to do was blend in, allow me to listen to the investigation, observe the body, and report back to me. Nowhere in there was it implied you should chat up the forensic artist."

"'Yagami-kun' now, is it?"

"Matt."

"Jesus _Christ_. _Fine_, I was outta line, alright? I'm sorry for talking to your boyfriend at the crime scene. But I did think you might want me to see the sketch, just in case. And I admit, I was just a bit curious, and it seemed a good way to talk to him without him knowing it was, you know, me. 'Cause I don't think he really likes me. And dude, you really can't get pissy at me when this is exactly the sort of nosy shit you trained us to do."

"I did not train you to risk your assignment because of personal, unrelated curiosity."

"Yeah, well, I said I was sorry, didn't I? Anyway, you should at least be proud of 'Yagami-kun' for catching on that she was lying before the rest of the police. And you got to talk to him as L, which if you think about it was really stupid and risky, but hey, you're L, right? You do shit like that."

"That is irrelevant. It simply means that this particular murder won't give us a lead in the case – that is all. But, simply out of curiosity…whose face was he drawing?"

"Uh, wait, what?"

"You said he wasn't sketching out the description from the witness. Who was he drawing?"

"Heh, are you being jealous, L?"

"No."

"…Holy shit, you are."

"You seem to be having trouble listening today. I am not being…jealous."

"You know he probably draws a lot of faces every day, right?"

"I am not being jealous."

"Right."

"Are you going to answer my question?"

"Nope, I don't think so."

"If this is passive-aggressive revenge for the unfortunate incident last night, it is misplaced."

"Yeah, Light looked really 'unfortunate' with all those new hickeys."

"Matt. Stop taking your anger out on me, when it is really yourself you are angry with, for not checking your phone earlier."

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me."

"This is not psychoanalysis. And you shouldn't blame yourself; it was simply a roll of fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

"An accident, then."

"…I should have checked my phone. I mean, I _knew_ you were probably going to have him over last night. I just, I just didn't think."

"Perhaps."

"But it's still your fault too. You could have locked the door or something."

"Perhaps."

"Or just left Light alone in the first place. I told you, I _told_ you Mello wouldn't take it well."

"I actually think he took it rather well, once we got passed the unfortunate gun reaction."

"Did you see him last night at all? Did you see his face when he left?"

"I agree that last night was not a happy experience for him, overall. But Mello isn't someone who can be content hiding from difficult issues, Matt. I think you'll see, in the long run, this will be a good thing for him."

"Don't try to pretend you did all this for Mello's benefit."

"It was not my intent to do so."

"Fine, alright. I get it. But I still think you're selfish and insensitive – so you know."

"I would be surprised if you didn't, Matt."

"So…do you still want to know who he was drawing?"

"…No. It is not important."

"Wait, really? You don't wanna know?"

"No. I do not care."

"'Cause a minute ago you looked like you were going to stab me with that fork until I told you."

"It was a momentary curiosity, and it has passed now."

"Yeah…that really sounds like a load of bullshit, you know?"

"Thank you for your input."

"Right. Well, if you're really not interested, I'm gonna go catch up with Mello."

"That is acceptable."

"Well, see ya, I guess."

"Goodbye, Matt. Oh, and Matt?"

"Huh?"

"I don't own strawberry-print knickers."

"Okay, L."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: WARNING! SEXUAL CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER! See? It's too late for warning, you've already read it. Right, hope the almost-sex was okay; I tried to do it in a non-flow-disruptive way. <em>

_I've decided sleep is definitely overrated. As is anything else that can't be done while writing/reading fanfiction, including showering, work, school, and social interactions. However, eating, laundry, and pacing around like a madwoman are all okay, as I have found them quite compatible with a fanfiction addiction. As such, most of this chapter was written at hours of the morning that shouldn't be seen by human eyes, and also, embarrassing as it is to admit, while I was doing laundry at those same hours. Laundry, apparently, likes fanfiction too. The things my laundry and I get up to._

_Okay, that last line was a joke._

_Um, yeah – nothing important in this note (surprise?), so skip away if you haven't already, unless you want to hear about my guard fly. Yes, you read that right – a guard __**fly**__. As in housefly. It's very vicious. No, this is not a threat – I'm just sharing information because I can't seem to shut up after finishing a chapter. It guards my bathroom, and by that I mean the lovely little fucker won't leave, no matter how long I leave the door open. It likes to – and I'm not joking here – sit on my knee while I'm getting ready for the day. It even takes a shower with me once in a while, just buzzes around dodging water while I wash my hair. I've actually become a bit fond of it, and I'm not sure if that's Stockholm syndrome I've developed or Lima syndrome. I think it's going to die soon, though; apparently houseflies only live 15-25 days. I'm disturbingly distressed over this._

_Right, enough of that. I **can** contain myself from rambling, I promise. Thanks for reading, and (alright, this bit is important, I lied earlier) a big thank-you hug to everyone who reviewed last chapter. Hah! You've been hugged by a stranger and there's nothing you can do about it. And as always massive thanks and hugs to Algea, who looks after my sanity for me. I think she keeps it in a tiny little box in a cupboard, along with some cobwebs and old socks._


	14. Apples and Goodbyes

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Apples and Goodbyes_

* * *

><p><em>Tuesday<em>

The problem with buying apples – or any sort of produce, really, but apples in particular – was that there was always an element of risk involved.

Not that this was actually a _problem_. Light, in general, had always relished gambles, that thrill of pitting himself and his wits against any other force in the universe, whether it was an especially long-winded exam, an observant art collector he'd never even meet face-to-face, or simply a random whim of fate determined to usurp control of his life. He was constantly chasing after one more game of hazard, one more game of strategy and chance that had just enough out of his control to make it exciting and more than enough within his control to make it fun.

All in life was a game, really. There to be enjoyed and even savored, but ultimately there to be won. And the games Light liked the best – the ones that made his heart race and his eyes flash in challenge – were the ones that promised a chance of failure.

It was gratifying, of course, to win even when there was no possibility of him losing, but what made a game truly _thrilling_ was the possibility, whether great or small, that at the end he honestly might walk away with a loss – or, more drastically, that he might not be able to walk away at the end at all.

The risk involved in any gamble was what made winning particularly satisfying. And Light, above all, was good at winning.

Buying apples at a cloudy, half-heartedly busy market was obviously a very mundane gamble, not anything that actually could intrigue Light's interest, but the bare principles were the same: he could examine the apples, smell them, check for hidden wormholes or sly bruises that somehow managed to escape the seller's meticulous notice, but in the end it wasn't until his money was spent and his teeth sinking into the crisp flesh of the fruit that he truly knew if the apple was worth the investment, or if it was hiding a rotten interior.

Relationships, Light decided as his long fingers plucked a promising apple from its tidy pile of gleaming brothers, were much the same way.

Not just the sex – though plenty of comparisons could certainly be made in that vein – but the actual engagement of time, energy, and emotional involvement. _Those_ things were the investment, and until they were spent one couldn't fully know if a good choice had been made. It took time to see if two people were compatible – it may not have been a _blind_ risk, but until some degree of involvement was placed on the table there was no way to know for sure how a relationship would turn out. And that was the risk; that was the gamble.

That was the game.

Light eyed the fruit balanced atop his fingertips, taking in the unblemished skin covered with its gentle red blush. He lifted the apple to his nose and inhaled slowly – crisp and sweet and just a bit tangy, the smell of brisk winds and succulent bites and potential. Perfect.

He didn't have to buy the fruit. Though at first glance it seemed a promising apple, there was always a chance its softer insides were undesirable, spoiled beneath its wrap of skin. There was always a chance he was wasting his money, however insignificant a sum it might have been, and would have to toss his purchase away after only one bite.

He could put the apple back, walk away. He didn't have to take this chance. Did he even want an apple in the first place?

Light hesitated a moment, the fruit teetering between falling more snugly into his palm and slipping back among the other apples waiting patiently, and in the back of his mind he knew he was making this decision much more significant than necessary.

But it wasn't about the apple, not really.

And Light wasn't the type to hesitant for more than a moment.

Dropping his coins into the hand of the tired-looking man slumped on a rickety stool behind the stand, Light let his legs begin to carry him away, and, without another thought, he placed the apple to his lips and took a bite.

It whispered a satisfying crunch against his mouth as the skin gave way, juices sinking between his teeth. Light smiled.

"Yagami-kun?"

Despite having been caught off his guard, Light managed to not hiss in displeasure as he realized who had stopped him by grabbing at his arm, though how much of that could be attributed to his acting skills and self-control and how much to the slip of an apple bite in his mouth blocking out sound, he wasn't precisely sure.

"Yoshimoto-san," he returned quietly after swallowing, his voice perfectly pleasant. A discreet tug had his elbow free of the hold it had been abruptly caught in by his father's subordinate, the movement disguised as he calmly sucked up an errant drop of juice from his thumb. "Are you here on duty?"

Hovering next to Light, the detective pressed his lips in a cheerful smile, and his hand dropped casually back to his side.

"Not today," he answered brightly. "So, how the heck are you, kid?"

Cheerfulness, Light decided distastefully even as he smiled politely, ought to have a limit, with certain excessive levels warranting legal consequences. It was a public hazard to be walking around emanating that much goodwill; it was liable to drive less-than-stable people to violent extremes. Besides, _true_ constant cheerfulness only ever came from idiots, in Light's experience – those too stupid to see beyond their own simple thought processes to the big picture, where the world wasn't always sunny and bright and _simple_. Those idiots were the types who walked around with one eye shut, only seeing the happy half of the world and missing the deeper intricacies and complexities.

What made Yoshimoto particularly annoying to deal with was that Light _knew_ he wasn't an idiot. He had seen the detective at work, where he not only was efficient and professional but also very competent – not like another man on the force occasionally inflicted on Light, a Matsuda Touta, whose competency seemed inversely proportionate to the amount of exuberance he blasted the world with, though Light did rather suspect that with experience this would get better.

But Yoshimoto – Yoshimoto could be perfectly competent on a case and drop any unnecessary cheeriness like an old coat, but Light would still pass him in the halls at the station and get bombarded with the man's unneeded sociable fluff. And while socializing was a useful venue for manipulation, Light had no reason to bother, nothing to gain from wasting his time being bored by Yoshimoto.

Yet his habits were well-ingrained, so at that moment Light kept his smile smoothly pasted and answered, rather than brushing the man off and continuing with his day as he wanted.

"Doing well, thanks," he said, keeping it short and hoping Yoshimoto would get the hint. "You?" He really didn't appreciate being called 'kid' by someone only about ten years his senior, and he was sure his smile had taken on a chilly edge as a result, though he very much doubted anyone besides Ryuzaki would have noticed.

Yoshimoto certainly didn't, as his own smile continued on unabated and he replied, "Just fantastic, thanks, just fantastic. Certainly doing a lot better now that blasted murderer is behind bars. Did you hear about that, how L finally caught that bastard?"

"Mm, I did actually," Light murmured. "You're talking about the music teacher?"

Yoshimoto nodded happily. "Yep, that one. Quite a relief, you know, to finally have that psycho off the streets. Got a nephew who plays the saxophone, after all – great kid. He's right over there, actually, have you met him before?" He nodded to his right, where Light could see a young teenager about five paces off examining a row of ears of corn. The boy bore a vague resemblance to Yoshimoto, with his high, thin eyebrows and full bottom lip, but unlike his uncle his top lip matched its pair's fullness, both lips broad and fleshed out. The most striking difference, however, was his hair – locks of a gentle dishwater blond that was rarely seen in Japan and had clearly already caught the eye of more than one passer-by. The boy, however, seemed either oblivious or accustomed to the attention as he scowled down at the corn in distraction.

Light's glance was quick and indifferent, but nonetheless his eyes carefully traced and catalogued the nephew's features, the habit both automatic and instantaneous as he committed them to memory, potential later victims to his pencil's whims.

"No, I haven't met him," Light answered simply, his eyes lingering for a barely a moment in mostly uninterested curiosity on the boy's unusual hair color.

"Mother's a foreigner," Yoshimoto answered, seeming to pick up Light's unspoken question, and Light nodded curtly. Mistaking this as encouragement to continue, the detective stretched his grin wider and added, "He's staying with me for the time being, you see. His mother's a traveler, jetting around all the time, and he decided he wanted his high school years to be a bit steadier. I've got room, so I'm letting him bunk up at my place until graduation."

"His father?" Light asked, polite and really not caring, his fingers absently twirling his apple.

There was a brief pause, like Yoshimoto was choosing his words carefully, then he spoke. "He passed away a little over a year ago."

Light's eyes flickered up sharply at that, and he briefly scanned Yoshimoto's features. The detective was wearing a soft smile but there was a hard tightening around his eyes which Light hadn't seen on him before. It had an interesting effect on the detective's face; Light wondered if he could capture the expression on paper when he got home.

"Your brother?" Light guessed quietly, and at Yoshimoto's nod he murmured, "I'm sorry," not entirely meaning it. It was unfortunate, obviously, but Light couldn't muster more than a vaguely sympathetic indifference at the news. Other people's misfortunes hardly ever concerned him, and Light was too at peace with his own selfish tendencies to feel any guilt over this.

"Thanks." Yoshimoto's smile cracked a bit wider again, and he instantly looked more his normal cheery self. There was only a tiny trace of the grief-hardened edge to his eyes as he turned his gaze from his oblivious nephew back to Light. "Say hello to your father for me, will you?"

Light nodded, used to this request from Yoshimoto even though he was certain the detective saw Light's father more often than he did.

"I'll do that," he assured, and he wasn't sure if he meant it but he certainly was sure that he didn't care. "Have a good day."

It was a clear dismissal for all that it was politely said, and Light could see that Yoshimoto recognized this. Final nods and smiles were exchanged with the ease of any meaningless interaction, a few more empty words spoken, then Light was finally continuing along his way unhindered, his apple returned to his lips. Had he looked back, he would have seen a pair of pale eyes marking his departure curiously.

But he didn't, and the eyes soon returned to the produce before them.

* * *

><p><em>Wednesday<em>

Matters in L's hotel suite, to put it mildly, were rather tense.

The cause should have been obvious to anyone with half a brain, even someone who wasn't currently the greatest detective in the world (and no, L didn't get tired of hearing that title applied to himself, thank you), but that didn't make the effects any less bothersome to deal with.

L couldn't work like this. It felt like everywhere he turned he was tripping over unspoken words and unaddressed issues, not the least of which being why he had yet to receive some sort of mild (or not so mild), retaliative violence from his more volatile underling.

It had been three and a half days since Mello had been so abruptly introduced to the reality of L's liaisons with Light, and during the time between then and now L hadn't seen Mello once, only communicating with him via telephone and via Matt.

And that was fine. In fact, L would have been happy to have carried on that way indefinitely, since it seemed to be working so well for everyone. But here they were all together again today, all jammed into one room with nothing but empty, thick tension between them, and L felt he could be forgiven for keeping one eye on Mello's gun hand.

Which meant both hands, actually.

At the moment, the most threatening thing Mello was doing was sprawling across the sofa like a lazy cat and nibbling on a bar of chocolate, but L knew better than to let his guard down.

It was caution, not cowardice.

Matt, for his part, was tucked up against the wall by the windows, a game beneath his thumbs, though L was aware that at least half of Matt's attention would flicker up every few minutes to glance between L and Mello – probably an automatic response developed after years of association with the blond. A few feet away from the watchful gamer, lurking on the fringes of the scene, Near was stretched out on the floor and flicking through a pack of cards with careful fingers. L wasn't sure if he was figuring out a magic trick or plotting world domination – possibly both.

The room was quiet, the only sounds the crunch of chocolate and crinkle of wrapper, the tapping of keys, the _fwip_ of cards, and the occasional clinking of china. Every so often Watari would enter from the kitchen, distributing tea and sweets and reproving glances with his usual precision, but he never spoke nor broke the relative silence which hung heavily over the group.

It was all very oppressive.

On a slightly more positive note, L now understood with personal experience what it felt like to have the room cluttered up with a looming, metaphorical elephant. That was potentially useful, he supposed.

However, there was only so long that L would tolerate others indulging in awkward silences, and he concluded it fell upon his own shoulders now to get matters moving again.

He set down his cup of tea.

"So," he began, feeling this to be the best way to begin such discussions, jumping right in with no time-wasting havering. Two pairs of eyes glanced up at him curiously and warily, and Near's stayed indifferently upon his cards, though L could tell his ear was cocked in interest.

L cleared his throat.

"The case has now been solved, as you are aware," he declared, picking around his words neatly. "I am reasonably pleased with all of your work – though Mello, I would like to point out for future reference that shooting an unarmed man in the leg, even one proven to be guilty of murder, is not necessary when he is already in your custody and not currently attempting escape."

Mello bared his teeth in a wide grin. "I was blowing off steam," he said, and L heard Matt snort.

"Be that as it may," L overrode, "next time it happens I'll have no choice but to assign you paperwork for the following two weeks. Understand?"

"L, we don't _have_ paperwork."

"That is a small detail easily fixed."

Mello looked torn between laughing and scowling, but all he said was, "Fine. No more shooting defenseless serial killers."

"Good," L nodded. "Thank you."

"I'll give 'em a gun of their own first."

Deciding the defiant declaration unworthy of a response and ignoring Matt's second snort of laughter, L smoothly moved on to the next item of business. "I believe it is time," he said, "to decide where you will be traveling next."

He could practically see Mello's ears prick up at that, and the blond swiftly sat up on the sofa with a creak of leather on leather.

"We're leaving Japan?" he asked, eagerness painting his voice.

L plucked up a stack of case files from the coffee table before him and balanced them on top of his knees, his fingers already beginning to carefully draw the first folder open before he answered.

"In a manner of speaking," he hedged, and in the pause that followed he heard Matt's game carefully set down on the floor.

"_We're_ leaving Japan?" Matt differentiated quietly, and L could tell he was correctly not including the lead detective in that statement.

He nodded approvingly. "Very good, Matt. Yes, you three will be leaving Japan."

"But you'll be staying behind."

"For the time being."

Matt's eyes were locked carefully with L's, but having had enough time to become accustomed to Light's probing glances, L had no difficulty meeting Matt's.

The impromptu stare-down, however, was quickly broken by a noisy explosion from Mello.

"Christ, for fuck's sake, can we please all stop acting like I'm an idiot or I'm made of glass? It's getting really fucking old, you know! Yeah, I know L's sticking around so he can keep fucking Light, and no, I'm not going to fly off the handle and start popping off at random people on the street, so can we just move on already?"

L smiled.

"Excellent idea," he said, and even he wasn't sure if it was meant to be a taunt or not. "In the spirit of 'moving on', then, let me announce the next portion of your training that you will be undertaking." Carefully, he picked up the first folder on his knees and dangled it from his fingers. "Mello," he announced, "you will be going to New York first."

A grin leapt to Mello's lips, and he shot up from the sofa to snatch the file from L's grasp.

"Alright," he celebrated enthusiastically. "Hear that, Matt? We're going to New York again!"

L interrupted before Mello could dash off too far with the wrong idea. "Actually," he cut in, and the next file dangled in the old one's place, "Matt will be going to Australia, and Near, you will start in California."

"Wait, you're giving us solo cases?" This was from Matt, who unfolded himself from the floor to snag his file from L, passing along Near's as well while he was up. Then he settled against the wall again, idly flipping through his folder.

"In a manner of speaking," L answered. "If you look through the papers I have provided, you will find the details of the locations where you will be, individually, spending the next twelve months of your lives." L paused, waiting for the inevitable eruption he was sure would come. He wasn't disappointed.

"…WHAT?"

He met Mello's outraged eyes calmly but didn't speak yet, knowing Mello wasn't finished.

"A year? Are you fucking _shitting_ me, L? You're gonna shove us off into our own little corners of the world for an entire goddamn _year_?"

"I would hardly call New York City a 'little corner of the world', but other than that, yes, that is precisely what I'm proposing." He wasn't so much proposing as he was ordering, but he felt his successors were intelligent enough to pick up on this distinction. "You will be working with the police force in each of your assigned cities, staying each place a month before relocating to your next assignment, somewhere else – you'll find the list of your twelve cities and corresponding countries in your folders. Hopefully, this exercise will give you a more well-rounded training and will enable you to work with police and investigators from all around the world. More importantly, you will be forced to learn to work independently from each other and me, which will be vital when one of you eventually succeeds my position." He smiled blithely at his two official heirs, well aware at least one wouldn't be taking the news well.

He was right.

Mello's face had set into a hard plaster, stubbornness etched into every line, and he scowling all his determined uncooperativeness down at L.

"I'm not going unless Matt comes with me."

L sighed and picked up his tea again, feeling the steam against his skin. "Matt, I'm afraid, will be undergoing his own training, so this will not be possible." He took a careful sip.

"Matt doesn't even want to become a detective!" Mello threw back. "Why the fuck does he need his own training?"

"Matt's training will be slightly different than yours and Near's," L explained patiently, reuniting his cup with its saucer. "I'm sending him to an associate of mine, someone who I feel will be capable of extending his skills with hacking. I believe it will be very beneficial, should he agree to follow through with it."

"It'll be just as bloody beneficial if he gets his training while staying with me!"

L studied him with impassive eyes. "I see I didn't make this clear, Mello," he said, each word dropping with deliberate finality. "A large part of this exercise's function is to teach you to become self-sufficient as an investigator. It would defeat the purpose were Matt to remain by your side. After all, in order to become truly interdependent one must first learn to be independent, do you not think? It won't be long; you will see him in year, and phone calls and emails are acceptable."

L could see as the words struck home, and Mello suddenly had the wild, panicked look of someone whose world was splitting open beneath his feet; L supposed he wasn't entirely to be blamed. Twelve months was a considerable amount of time for two friends who hadn't parted company for more than two weeks at a time since the day they'd met, and Matt and Mello had always been particularly reliant on each other.

"You're serious about this," Mello managed to get out in strangled voice, eyes blown wide. "You're, you're _fucking_ serious, aren't you? I can't do a year, L, I can't! He's my best goddamn friend – Christ, we're practically _married_! I'll- I'll- I'll go _insane, _L. As in, next-World-War, out-of-my-fucking-mind insane. I'll end up hiding in rubbish bins and taking pot-shots at anyone who walks by, when I'm not blowing up buildings because Matt isn't around to keep me in line. I'll probably join up with the mafia and, and, and _fuck_ my way to the top so I can take down Near, and – Near! God knows what I'll do to Near!"

"You're overreacting, Mello." L took another sip of tea.

Mello's face twisted in outrage. "I'm _overreacting_? How the _fuck_ is this overreacting? Just because you're an emotionless _jackass_ who can't form any normal relationships beyond your goddamn successors and _fuck toys_-"

"_Mihael_."

Mello's mouth snapped shut so quickly his teeth clicked the instant his given name left Matt's lips, and two pairs of eyes engaged each other. L watched, silent, as they dashed through one of their infamous unspoken conversations, and after an estimated five seconds Mello broke away and scowled.

"Fine," he spat. "Bloody _fine_." He threw himself down on the sofa and crossed his arms, managing to look remarkably like a particularly murderous toddler throwing a tantrum.

Taking this as consent, L turned to Matt and found him watching him back with guarded eyes, which were flickering to every nuance of his appearance as though trying to figure out if L was pulling some sort of extremely ill-advised joke.

"Matt," L began again, "since you are not technically in the running to become my heir, you are of course under no obligation to complete this training if you do not wish to do so, but I still cannot allow you to work with Mello while he's engaged in his own training. I believe you would distract him."

It was something of a pity, really. Matt and Mello were an excellent team, together, balancing each other almost completely.

But that was the key, that 'almost' – their bond was strong, their friendship near unbreakable, but Mello's strengths in Matt were also his weaknesses. Until Mello learned to function without Matt constantly at his side, he would be too great a liability to be truly considered for L's heir.

Matt's expression didn't change as he spoke, his voice a blend of something casual yet hesitant. "And if I don't wanna do this training?"

L lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "You may do whatever you want with yourself for the next twelve months, short of staying with Mello. Money, I'm sure you realize, is of no concern, and you will be free to pursue whatever reasonably legal and safe lifestyle you want until Mello has completed his training."

Despite what it might have seemed, L really wasn't doing this to be cruel. He believed once their bond was re-forged they would find it stronger than before – or, alternatively, they could find they had grown in different directions and didn't quite fit together as smoothly, but L doubted it. A lifetime of friendship was hard to dissolve, usually – or so L had observed.

For a strange, incongruous moment, L could see Light laughing, comparing him to a mother bird chucking his little hatchlings out of the nest, but L blinked until the thought was gone. He had little doubt that, were Light to ever discover his identity, the teen would have endless amusement poking fun at certain elements of L's work, making light of very serious topics; it was just one of many reasons to make sure Light never uncovered the truth. He would be insufferable.

L told himself firmly that the thought was not at all appealing. He mostly succeeded.

"I'll do it," Matt said.

L's brain caught and stumbled for a second, stuck on thoughts of playful smiles and sharp eyes, then it quickly regained pace as he realized what Matt was talking about.

"Good," he nodded once, doing an excellent impression of someone who hadn't just been distracted by thoughts of his lover (no, _not_ lover, definitely not lover). "I think you'll be pleased with the instruction you receive."

There was a scornful huff from Mello's direction. "Like Matt _needs_ training. He's a fucking ace hacker and you _know_ it, L."

L ignored the disdain in Mello's voice; he could see the tell-tale panic in the blond's eyes lurking around the edges, the restlessness causing his hands to tremble, the tongue darting out to wet his lips. Mello was fraying around the seams, and L could easily see past the hostility he was hurling around to hide his vulnerability.

"I agree," L said, his tone a study in non-confrontation. "But I think we will find there is always room for improvement."

Mello just huffed again, and silence cut through the room like an angry wound; L had nothing else to say, and no one else seemed willing to break the fragile peace teetering on the edge.

It was Near, still stretched out on the floor and examining his folder with a quiet, almost religiously careful scrutiny, who finally spoke, the words his first of the day.

"When do we leave?"

"Why don't you just shut up, _fucknuts_."

Near didn't even blink, far too used to Mello's lashings out (generally directed at him) by now to be fazed.

"Tomorrow," L answered. "Your tickets should be at the back of your folders. Until your respective planes leave, you are all free to spend your time as you wish, as I have nothing further for you to do."

Mello was on his feet in an instant. "_Brilliant_," he hissed sarcastically. "Let's go, Matt. We've got a whole _day_ before we don't see each other for a year. Isn't that so fucking _generous_?"

Matt tucked his game in his pocket and his folder beneath his arm. "Yeah, you go ahead, Mels, I'll just be a minute. I needta ask L something about this training."

Mello scowled at L, as if this were his fault too. "Fine, I'll be in the car." Then, seemingly unable to express himself in any other manner, he crumpled up his empty chocolate wrapper and chucked it at L as hard as he could. He didn't even wait to see it bounce harmlessly off the side of the detective's head before he stormed out of the room.

"Well," L said mildly, absently wondering if he now had melted chocolate in his hair. He turned his eyes towards Near, found him already disappeared to his own room like a white, pajama-wearing ghost, and finally settled his gaze on Matt.

There was a stern gleam in Matt's otherwise causal eyes that was quickly becoming a little too familiar, and L knew he was about to be lectured, most likely about something Mello-related. He mused, idly, if he should be worried that he was with increasing frequency receiving moral sermons from someone who not only was younger than he was but also routinely cracked into government intelligence agencies worldwide and left dirty messages when bored.

"You're going to meddle, aren't you?" L sighed. "For someone who frequently claims to 'just be along for the ride', you're surprisingly meddling. But what was it you wished to speak to me about?"

"You're an ass, L."

L blinked. "Yes."

"And selfish."

"Yes."

"And kind of stupid."

"I must beg to differ on that one."

"And you're really emotionally stunted."

"This is getting rather hurtful, Matt; did you have a point?"

"Yes. You're falling in love."

L wondered if it was possible to have the breath knocked out of a person with just words. Evidence seemed to indicate in the affirmative.

"That's ridiculous," he began, but Matt was having none of his diversions.

"No, it's not. You're falling in love, or as close as someone like you gets to love."

"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

"And what's more," Matt continued with a steady tone, showing off how good he was at ignoring, "you're starting to panic because you've already realized you're falling in love. Probably didn't call it that, 'cause you're a coward, but if you break it down that's what it is – falling in love."

"…I do not believe you have any room to call me a coward."

"You're fucking falling in love, L. And it scares the piss out of you, doesn't it? You're going to run away from it all, I can already tell. You're going to run away from Light and anything the two of you might have one day. 'Cause you're L, and L doesn't_ do_ love. L does logic and deductions and reason, but the minute you start feeling anything you run away like a little girl."

L was barely listening anymore, his brain shutting off anything but the immediate need to stop Matt from continuing. He latched onto the first thought that promised safety.

"Said the murderer to the pickpocket."

That managed to bring Matt up short. "What?"

L blinked innocently, starting to feel control returning. "I was merely pointing out the irony of your words."

Matt scowled, his eyes averting to the side and his hand beginning its automatic dig for a cigarette. "That's different," he insisted.

"Correct," L agreed. "Your case is much more serious than mine."

Matt's scowl deepened. "You're not risking a lifetime of friendship with Light, and Light's actually attracted to you, weird as that sounds to say. It's different."

"Then I suggest you drop the matter and allow me to do as I see fit."

Matt's unlit cigarette stopped halfway on its virgin trip to his mouth, and the two stared at each other for a moment's pause.

Eventually, Matt spoke. "Fine," he said. "Fine. Don't know why I was even bothering."

L knew why, not that knowing the motivations behind Matt's meddling made it any less annoying. Meddling was meddling, and it didn't matter that he was only doing it because he couldn't help himself, because L's situation struck too closely to his own, because he had pushed his own feelings aside for so long that the moment he saw someone else with a chance at love (_no_, not love, some other emotional attachment, definitely not love) he couldn't stop himself from sticking his hands in and trying to make it work. Love, apparently, made bitter matchmakers out of the suppressed.

All the more reason to avoid it.

Matt lit his cigarette and took a long, deep drag that seemed to pull the smoke all the way down to his toes. He coughed – a little, closed-mouth sort of huff, but still a cough, and it was the first time L had seen Matt choke on a cigarette for at least seven years – and his usual easy smile seemed to finally find its way to his lips.

It didn't matter they both knew it was fake.

"Will I see you before I leave?" Matt asked.

"There is no requirement to do so. I will, of course, be in frequent contact during your training."

Matt nodded once. "Good. Right." He took another suck from his cigarette, gentler this time, and pulled his smile again. "Then I'll see you in a year."

As he watched Matt leave the suite, L wondered if he actually heard a quiet _good luck_ drifting on the smoke Matt left behind, or if was simply his imagination.

* * *

><p>Three days had slipped past since Light had last seen Ryuzaki. Ryuzaki hadn't called once since – and neither had Light. He knew better.<p>

Ryuzaki, Light was sure, was feeling unsettled and – for lack of a better word – spooked, like a skittish colt, and he would almost certainly take any half chance proffered to pull himself loose and run away. For now, pushing too hard in either direction would only serve to drive him off. Their almost-relationship was balanced precariously at the moment, teetering on the edge, and anything but careful, nonthreatening neutrality from Light would send everything crashing down around them.

And so, patiently, Light was waiting until Ryuzaki was ready to make the next move, for now neither chasing nor provoking.

It was hard – harder than he might have suspected it would be. Fingers itched to ring up Ryuzaki's number and hear that glass-smooth voice on the other end, that calm, serious voice with hidden layers of mischievousness that managed to bring out Light's playful side more than anything else. When his mind glanced against thoughts of Ryuzaki, his body reacted in unusual ways: energy thrummed beneath his skin, riding through his veins; his bones took on a dull, restless ache; a smile was never far from his lips. He was frequently preoccupied with thoughts of the other man's touch, and surprisingly, the contact he found himself absently imagining was usually less sexual than not.

Light wanted long fingers gently slipping through his hair, a whisper's touch. He wanted thin arms wrapped about his torso, holding him against a warm chest. He wanted careful hands and human contact and another's breath rising and falling with his; he wanted to feel Ryuzaki's skin against his palms until they were drowning together in each other without even moving. He wanted to slip into dreams under Ryuzaki's silent vigil, and he wanted to bathe for hours in the other man's affection.

And he wanted more. Always more.

He wanted to be selfish, greedy, demand every inch of Ryuzaki's attention. He wanted to burn beneath his touch and feel alive, breathless. He wanted to be _consumed_. He wanted to be adored, to be needed, to be Ryuzaki's whole world.

For once, he wanted – almost desperately, exhilaratingly – to be loved.

He'd been loved before, by more than one boyfriend who hadn't cottoned on to the casual hand he usually played his relationships with; each time the attention had been gratifying but ultimately tiresome, getting old and unwanted quickly when they thought their feelings meant they could dictate Light's life. Being loved was the surest way Light knew to kill freedom.

Except with Ryuzaki.

It was funny, really, when he thought about it. Light had never once honestly missed someone before, ached for their presence, but every day that passed without contact from Ryuzaki he found himself wanting to see him just a little more. It was a feeling he'd always thought weak, pathetic, and he'd never had any desire to experience it for himself. Yet now that he was within its subtle clutches, he decided it might be a delicious sensation, knowing there was someone out there who could intrigue him enough to demand his attention. It made life seem a bit more infused with promise; Light liked the feeling.

Perhaps it was slightly masochistic of him, to enjoy missing someone.

The thought only made him want to smirk.

And Light was eager. Had someone told him three months ago – no, three weeks ago – that he'd be eager at the thought of starting an emotional involvement, he'd have assumed them to be either an idiot or completely delusional.

Yet here he was. And he didn't regret it.

He gave it three more days until Ryuzaki called him.

Sometime during the weekend, when Light was free from school and less likely to be called in to work. Ryuzaki would be hesitant and wary but already trapped in the addiction, unable to stay away for long. He'd feel safer because he would be the one instigating the contact, secure in the belief that he could stop things from going too far, and Light would allow him the illusion of control.

He could afford to be generous.

And until Ryuzaki called, Light had plenty to keep himself busy. Canvas spread out before him, he held his breath and began to paint.

* * *

><p><em>Thursday<em>

"That was my plane they just called. I think. Sounds like they've got a chipmunk on acid doing the announcements."

"Don't go. You don't have to go. Just tell L you changed your mind about doing the training, then sneak over to New York with me. We can keep it hidden, easy."

"Mello."

"I'm serious! It'll be simple. Just don't, just don't go, okay? I think I'm gonna fall apart like a fucking girl if I have to watch you get on that plane."

"So don't watch."

"Matt! I'm being fucking serious here!"

"Yeah, so'm I. Look, we talked about this last night. Just a year, right? It'll fly by, and you'll be so busy you don't even notice."

"Bullshit, and you know it."

"Yeah, probably. But you can call me or text me whenever, you know? Even in the middle of the night, if you just wanna rant about something random. Even about Mrs. Walbruck and her fucked-up cats."

"Is that an invitation to sext you up while you're on the plane?"

"Figures you'd find a way to turn this conversation to sex."

"You know you love it."

"Heh, you wish. …Well, I guess- I guess I better go, you know? Or I'll, uh, miss the flight."

"Yeah."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Che, I don't ever do stupid shit, you know that."

"Don't fuck Near again."

"Yeah, that's the one good thing about this bullshit – won't hafta see the fuckwit for a year. Thank fuck."

"Yeah, that's good."

"Hey Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll uh, miss you, y'know. Kinda. A lot."

"I'm gonna miss you kinda a lot too."

"And I was thinking, uh, it might good if I could, you know, have something of yours. Just to hang on to. Just, just 'cause."

"You already stole three of my shirts."

"Shit, I thought you didn't notice that."

"You stole one of them while I was _wearing _it."

"Yeah, but you have like a gazillion of those stripy ones anyway. But look, I meant something more…I dunno, personal."

"Like what?"

"Like, uh, your goggles."

"You…want my goggles?"

"Fuck yeah. I mean, is that okay? 'Cause it's cool if you say no, I just thought I'd ask."

"No, it's cool. Hang on, lemme just get 'em untangled from my jacket… Here."

"Cool. Thanks. This'll be…good. And uh, here, you can hang on to this, if you want."

"…Mels, I can't take your cross."

"You sure as fuck can. Now shut up and accept it before I just shove it down your throat so you _have _to."

"You're kinda pushy, you know that?"

"Just figuring this out, are you? …Shit, that's your plane about leave, you better run, man."

"Yeah… Hey look, this is gonna sound weird, but would you um, smile when I leave? Just 'til I get to the Jetway. 'Cause I don't want the last time I see you in a year to be you looking all…unsmiling."

"…Yeah, I'll try. "

"Are you…are you crying?"

"Got something in my fucking eye. Now get the hell outta here before I put my boot through your ass."

"Right, got it. I'll see ya later, yeah? Take care of yourself."

"You too. See ya, Matt."

"See ya."

"…Wait, MATT! MATT, HOLD UP!"

"What do you- o_of_."

"It's a hug, dumbass, now hug me back."

"…You're getting my shirt wet."

"Suck it up and deal."

"…I'm gonna miss you."

"Fucking miss you too."

"…You needta let go now, or I really will miss the flight."

"You need to let go too."

"Oh, right. …Um, well, bye. Goodbye, Mels."

"...Bye, Matt."

And even though he had tears sneaking down his cheeks, Mello made sure that, when Matt turned around one last time right before disappearing from sight and lifted a closed fist with a silver cross pressed tightly to the palm, he had a fucking smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I think my heart just broke. Anyone else feeling a bit heartbroken, or am I just corny and pathetic?<em>

_Other sad news: my __fly is dead. They hurt a little, my insides. But – in true Lion King fashion – the circle of life continues and while my valiant fly may be gone, I have some happy news concerning the opposite end of the spectrum: I am now an aunt! Well, I was actually an aunt before, but now I am also a nephew-aunt and not just a niece-aunt. My sister-in-law had her baby this week, and he's somehow absolutely adorable despite looking like a drowned, swollen-eyed rat. He has yet to be named because his parents say he "shouldn't be named until they're more familiar with his personality", so I've taken to calling the little guy Voldemort._

…_Get it? GET IT? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…yet? C'mon, it's funny! No one else seems to think so, though, because they either chuckle nervously when I say it or just give me confused looks. I think it has something to do with the outrage of connecting an innocent little ball of sweetness and purity with a murdering madman, but I'm still feeling a bit miffed. Then my darling little Voldie looks up at me with his lovely slit-eyes and I coo down at him like a demented mother hen, and all is right with the world._

_Though, considering some of the names his parents have been seriously tossing around ('Gordon' comes to mind), I may end up calling him Voldemort anyway for the rest of his life, and he'll thank me for it rather than muttering about that loony aunt who calls him after a fictional evil wizard and frequently tries to bribe him with chocolate so he'll like her (and yes, I'll be doing a lot of that)._

_But speaking of chocolate, you all deserve some. Thanks for sticking around even though this story is dragging on longer than even I expected (um…warning: this is going to be a long haul sort of deal, but I do promise I know where it's going). And, really, thanks so much for all the support. I don't always reply to reviews, but I always, always appreciate it. You guys are fantastic, so go get yourselves some chocolate and tell them to put it on my tab._


	15. Broken

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Broken_

* * *

><p>L's successors were gone, flung to the winds like dandelion seeds, and his hotel suite was finally empty.<p>

Except that it wasn't. And that was the problem.

Of course it wasn't actually empty – it was full of sofas and rugs and tables and quietly humming computers and even L himself. But mostly it was full of memories, memories of laughing eyes and a warm body, and those memories were not safe. He was staying away from those memories.

L had a stack of potential case files in front of him. It was a good stack, tall and full and holding a high likelihood of providing him with something interesting. He picked absently at the top manila cover.

He was in no mood to work.

Except that he was. He fervently wanted a twisted tangle of a puzzle to sink his teeth into, to slowly unravel until the world made sense again. He wanted a seamless return to routine – the steady routine of his life before dangerous things started trying to invade it.

But he had no desire to skim through this stack of cases, trying to find that _one _that caught his interest. It was too easy to let his mind wander to places he had no interest in visiting: memories that smelt of crisp apples and bitter coffee, that felt of a curling smile pressed softly to his lips and a breath against his cheek, a permeating sense of affection and attachment and all sorts of sticky things that had no business playing around anywhere near his emotions.

He was sinking – sinking fast and he knew it, but maybe if he didn't think about it, it wouldn't be true.

But the more he didn't think about how much he wanted Light there in the room with him – the real Light, not these memories that were slowly eating away his brain – the more apparent it became. And he couldn't stop it; he couldn't stop the worry pounding at his mind, scraping at his chest, the stress pulling his insides into horrible knots.

But he supposed it was only natural. Dangerous things tended to make one worry, and this room was full of dangerous things. Intangible things, perhaps, but no less dangerous for all that they were mere memories.

Light, curled up on the sofa like he owned it, eyes bright with challenge. Light, biting his tongue in concentration but keeping it carefully tucked inside his mouth, out of sight from eyes less observant than L's. Light, smirking as he handed him tea, fingers deliberate as they transferred the steaming mug to L's hands.

Light, his entire body taut as a bow, ecstasy tainting his features without shame.

L picked at the top folder again, not lifting it from the stack. He wasn't sure if he was panicking or frozen in debilitating apathy.

Eventually, he knew, Watari would come in, smelling of tea and peppermint and good sense, and he'd spur L into action. He'd pick up the folders one by one and read aloud a brief summary from each, and L would either flick his finger in dismissal or nod his head towards a _maybe _pile. The _maybe _folders would not be very many – only five or six at most – and each one would contain a brutal, grisly murder case in some far-flung corner of the world. They would all be solvable without ever leaving his hotel suite. He'd choose one, eventually, leaving the others for later, and he'd throw himself into the puzzle eagerly, desperately, his brain spinning and his laptop purring. It would be a beautifully relieving return to routine.

L could be terribly predictable, even to himself; he knew exactly how the next few hours would play out.

For now, though, he sat. He sat and he picked and he kept his thoughts controlled, and he resolutely did not think about how much he wanted to call Yagami Light.

He almost succeeded – but with no one there to police his thoughts, no one had to know.

* * *

><p><em>Saturday<em>

Light's brush, loosely tucked between his fingers, rolled its way smoothly across his canvas. Careful dark eyes were watching its path with easy interest, when they weren't flicking through a neat stack of papers balanced atop the owner's knee – but Light wasn't bothered or concerned.

The eyes weren't Ryuzaki's, for all that they shared the same color. Ryuzaki's eyes were wide and consuming, like a pool's reflection at midnight; these eyes were sharp, sleek, refined. There was intelligence in them, but it was steady and controlled – not like Ryuzaki's, which vacillated from unbearably piercing and intense one minute to purposely dulled and glassy the next.

Light lifted his brush from the canvas, pushing back an errant strand of hair with his wrist.

"What do you think so far?" he asked, and black eyes flickered from the canvas up to his face.

"It's good," Mikami nodded appraisingly. "Excellent, in fact. But you know that."

Light smiled across the small room and found it reflected back to him in Mikami's eyes.

"Perhaps, but a second opinion never hurts."

Quiet fell comfortably between them again, easy and compatible. Light let it stretch out as his eyes tripped along the unfinished canvas, mentally filling in the places that had yet to be completed, painting it carefully across his mind. In the hum of near-silence, he could hear the whisper of pages as Mikami flipped through his methodically paper-clipped stack.

Light wondered to himself, absently, if this was the beginnings of a tradition to be made, these sporadic Saturday afternoons tucked away in this tiny, near-empty apartment. He found he didn't exactly mind if that did turn out to be the case. Mikami was unobtrusive, sometimes appearing with a slim smile and a polite request to watch, sometimes not, and either way was fine. The Saturdays he did come – and it was always on Saturdays, never any other day – he simply would find a chair from somewhere and settle into it comfortably, melding nicely in with the background. Most of the time he brought his briefcase along, so when he wasn't quietly watching the painting evolve beneath Light's brush he would bury himself in his own work.

His eyes were never distracting; instead he seemed truly curious about the art, taking an honest pleasure only born from a true enthusiast. And Light had never been one to be bothered by being watched – it worked well all around.

It helped that Light actually liked Mikami, a rare enough event.

"Vivaldi, _The Four Seasons_," he tossed out suddenly, his brush never pausing. "Which concerto?"

There was a quiet rustle of papers as Mikami thought.

Once in a while, when his mind needed a momentary distraction from the sharpened scent of paint and the dull ache in his wrist, Light liked breaking the easy silence between them by quizzing Mikami on his tastes in composers and painters and whatever else struck his passing fancy. Mikami took it in stride easily, occasionally pulling him along into a debate on the merits of this piece of art or that era of music, and Light would smile and paint and air out his own opinions.

"Summer," Mikami answered at last, decisively. Light nodded; he'd suspected that would be the serious man's preference.

"Winter's mine," he offered in turn, taking his eyes away from his canvas for a brief moment to flash Mikami a quiet half-smile. Mikami hummed in response, dark eyes sliding to his thoughtfully then back to the papers in his hand.

After a quiet minute, Mikami threw out one of his own.

"Greek philosophers," he asked, and Light bit his tongue in contemplation. This was a new direction.

"I have always found Apollonius of Tyana remarkable," he admitted at last, "if only because there's very little actually known of him, yet he managed to carve out an almost super-human reputation for himself among ancient _and_ modern minds. Our primary source of information on him is a biography that's more a novel than objective fact, though still the contemporary world remembers him as a magician of sorts – a worker of wonders, comparable to Jesus of Nazarath. I find that…remarkable."

"Hm," Mikami hummed quietly over the shuffle of his papers. "So your interest has less to do with his actual philosophies and more with his – purportedly very charismatic – personal sway?" There was a knowing smile lurking on the edge of his mouth. "Fitting."

Light smirked unabashedly. "Charisma is a very effective tool that can be used to further almost any purpose – including noble purposes," he lectured. "There are few doors that won't be greased with the proper application of charm and eloquence."

Black eyes studied him, gleaming with thought. "I doubt there are very many doors that have ever truly been closed to you, Yagami-kun."

Light chuckled. "Flatterer," he accused, dabbing boldly at his canvas.

The lines of Mikami's eyes crinkled in a smile, but he offered no defense and merely returned his gaze to his own tagalong work.

The hours passed.

* * *

><p><em>Saturday, a few hours earlier<em>

L was not spying on Light.

That would be ridiculous, and it would definitely be more…involved than L had any wish to be. He was not spying.

What he _was_ doing, while lurking across the street from Light's flat and wearing a ridiculous but effective disguise that would have made two-thirds of his successors laugh if they could have seen him in it, was security assurance. This was just a simple reinvestigation into a person who had physical access to L – an excusable caution to take, by any standards. L had already researched into Light's background thoroughly, of course, before ever contacting him, but that had been before, when he'd only expected to sleep with Light a couple of times at most. Longer involvement meant more detailed scrutiny. That was all.

L didn't have to wait long before Light emerged.

He almost didn't notice, however, because when Light finally slipped onto the street and headed out south of his complex, wearing dirty jeans, a ratty tee-shirt, sunglasses, and a baseball cap, L probably wouldn't have even recognized him if not for his own familiarity with Light and his years as a detective, which had trained him to look at people and not at the disguises which clung to them.

Because Light _was_ in disguise, in a manner of speaking. And it was jolting to see him dressed in grungy clothes and walking with a carefree swagger that spoke of a bratty, rebellious teen, rather than the usual understated elegance and confidence L was accustomed to seeing Light don. It was as if Light had adopted an entirely new persona.

L's brain felt numb even as his feet automatically began stealthily following after Light, his body remembering how to trail someone even if his mind hadn't begun processing anything beyond muted surprise and the stirrings of piqued curiosity.

Light was smacking and popping _chewing gum_. _Loudly_.

L couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea of it.

It was a good thing he had spent so much of his early years sneaking after suspects (minions were so useful for that now); Light was clever and probably would've had little problem spotting an amateur tail. Even with L's experience, there were several times he was almost given the slip: Light would glide off the train bare seconds before the doors decided to shut, could duck into alleys when convenient masses of people pressed up around him, blocking him from view. There was more than one near call.

Light didn't even seem to be aware he was actually being followed. It felt more like a routine security measure than anything else, a habit ingrained by the careful and paranoid, and as a result L could feel his own habitual paranoia settling firmly in his gut like a solid ball of ice.

There was nothing in Light's life that should warrant this kind of cautious behavior, as far as L knew.

Which meant there was something L _didn't_ know about – something, needless to say, rather major, and something very likely dangerous, one way or another.

L's heart beat steadily against his ribs.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime, like no time at all, they at last reached Light's destination.

By this point they had made their way into one of the older sections of the city, where streets were narrower and buildings dirtier and stray cats prowled around with mangy fur. Light paused at a stairway of a dingy-looking flat, peering casually around for a moment as he smacked at his gum, and, evidently seeing nothing to concern him, he proceeded to strut up the steps in an overtly cocky stride that was not quite his own, looking for all the world like he had every right to be there.

L, pressed just out of sight, mentally applauded him: furtiveness attracted attention, and the best way not to be noticed was to act like nothing was amiss.

The fact that Light knew this merely showed L that things were very amiss.

Light disappeared inside and L sank to a crouch, prepared to wait as long as needed.

He sat outside that flat for little over a quarter of an hour, wondering, waiting, digging his mind into this mystery with a clinical detachedness that surprised even him. It felt as if all parts of his insides had been frozen, everything glazed in ice save for his deductive mind, which was busy applying itself to the new riddle Light presented. Any sort of betrayal or anger or _emotion_ he might have felt was instantly dismissed for the nonsense it was.

There had been no sort of agreement – verbal or implicit or otherwise – made between Light and him concerning their private lives, except for a simple, unspoken agreement not to pry; therefore, there was no possibility for betrayal. There had been nothing between them but a couple of weeks of random, casual sex, which meant there was no hurt at all to be felt, besides perhaps a mild regret that the sex probably had to end now, depending on what was revealed about Light today.

It was simple.

Maybe later – maybe then his gut would seize painfully again and his stomach would decide it wanted to lodge itself in his chest cavity; emotions were irrational creatures and needed to be dealt with eventually, but not now. Now was the crisis, and everything unneeded had been shut off – everything but brainpower and adrenaline and his heart thudding against his throat.

It wasn't until he tasted copper that he realized he had bitten through the skin of his thumb.

Extraneous. He wiped his thumb clean and continued his watch.

Fifteen minutes more passed by before there was any activity of interest. It took the form of a man, a man about L's age in a crisp suit and shined shoes, and he barely paused at the base of the steps before climbing quietly up to the flat. He knocked on the door Light had disappeared into earlier – L was too far away to hear, but he could see the man's knuckles tapping softly – and a second later the door cracked open and the unknown businessman slipped quickly inside.

The finality with which it shut behind him was echoed in L's own bones as the situation at last clicked into place.

A small flat, away from nosy eyes, a disguise to reach it, a discreet but undisguised visitor – there was only one probable explanation, and it presented itself to L with no apology. That was it, then. That was the reason for the secrecy, for the caution, for the chewing gum and the baseball cap and the ratty clothes and the reason why Light was so impossibly good at being _fucked_.

Practice, it had been said, made perfect.

L had small flash of panic as he realized that this revelation might nullify his previous investigation concerning whether or not Light was carrying any sexual diseases – but no, he'd sent Light's samples himself and knew the teen was clean.

His panic, having flared, settled itself back into a vague, fatalistic resignation, tattered at the seams. _Of course._ There was no surprise in this revelation, not when looked at logically, and it was only natural things should turn out this way.

L had been a fool, almost caught in sentimentality's trap, and it was infinitely fortunate he had discovered the truth so soon.

He took a slow breath. His logical mind was pounding at the walls so he let it take over, soothing in its familiarity, and with brisk ease it brushed aside any sort of lingering ache lurking somewhere around his lungs, in the back of his throat, in the back of his mind.

His next course of action fell into place before him. This wasn't a significant revelation, merely a minor blip in his plans, and it could be easily dealt with.

It was a simple argument, in the end, an elementary line of rhetoric that dictated his next move: Light was adept at lying and hiding secrets; the nature of L's work required the utmost caution and isolation. Light engaged in sexual intercourse with strangers on an at least semi-regular basis for money, exposing himself to a multitude of social diseases; L could afford to take no chances with his own health. Light was intelligent – possibly _brilliant_ – as well as beautiful, cunning, and in possession of an obvious flair for mendacity; L was a famous, _anonymous_ international detective with no time (or desire) for emotional involvement, particularly not with someone with those dangerous qualities. Light was stubborn as a mule and accustomed to making his will reality; L liked his life as it was – firmly in his own control.

The conclusion was obvious: it was time to permanently end things with Light.

It had already gone on too long, anyway, and this was a good opportunity to finally bring about the inevitable. And it _was_ inevitable, this breakup. It had only ever been a question of when.

It didn't have to hurt.

L just had to get back to his hotel now, and he'd finally put an end to this extended affair with Yagami Light tonight. He just had to stand up and leave now.

Any minute now.

There was little point in staying here, he knew, no point at all. There was absolutely nothing of value to be gained, nothing new to be learned besides, perhaps, how long it took Light to get off with a well-dressed stranger.

Abruptly, distantly, L realized he was trembling.

His fists were tightly pressed – knuckles bone-white – and he was trembling, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.

And there it was, that clawed, dark beast that lurked inside his skull and chest and wanted to tear the eyes out of anyone who so much as looked at what was his. There it was, prowling beneath his skin, the reason why he didn't get emotionally attached. It threatened to consume him, to drive out any logic or capability for reasonable thinking, and he was at once unaware of anything but the cold, desperate fury that had suddenly been unclamped within his mind.

It was irrational. Illogical. There was no reason for him to react to this degree, not when he hadn't even known Light a month's time, not when he had so carefully cultivated nothing more than a detached sexual interest in Light.

Not when he had already addressed and _dismissed_ the beginning stirrings of jealousy that had tried to take root within him.

He shouldn't care. He shouldn't care at all but he _did_, and it hurt worse than he'd expected it to, like a malevolent parasite had wormed it's way into his chest and poisoned everything with anger and hurt and jealousy until he _couldn't even breathe anymore-_

No. This reaction was out of the question. This was precisely why he didn't do attachment, and he wouldn't be so foolish as to trip now that he was mere yards from the finish line.

Just like shutting off a valve, he clamped back down on the wave already roaring in his ears, as if it didn't even exist. Because it shouldn't exist, and it wouldn't, not once he distanced himself from the emotional shock of the immediate situation.

All that mattered right now was taking care of what needed to be done then moving on, back to routine – and L could do that, easily.

In a way, it was a good thing.

Now he didn't have to worry about Light usurping his lifestyle, and he didn't have to worry about keeping his emotions from becoming entangled in a messy affair. It was a tidy, easy solution – an excuse to carry out what was inexorably going to happen anyway. All that remained was to break things off with Light, leave Japan, and allow his life to take back the course it was accustomed to following.

Routine.

He clung to that thought with numbed fingers and pushed back at the beast within his jealousy, and finally his cold, clean logic settled back over him like a blanket of frost.

It was easy. He had done it a million times and more, and now was no different: acknowledge the emotion, realize why it was unnecessary, and let logic guide. Logic made everything so much simpler, like neat pathways of ice his mind could skate along with a razor's ease.

Anything else was superfluous.

Especially Yagami Light and whatever he decided to do with his life. It had nothing to do with L.

It didn't even have to hurt.

* * *

><p>Light stood in front of the interior door to Ryuzaki's hotel suite, feeling adrenaline quietly purring through his veins.<p>

He had almost – _almost_ – resigned himself to the idea that Ryuzaki wasn't going to call this weekend and would need more time to sort himself out. It hadn't been a big deal. Light had just tucked himself up on his sofa for the evening, fresh from the shower and with his paint stains meticulously cleaned off, his sketchpad on his knee and a cup of coffee cooling at his elbow as he had prepared to lose himself to the interestingly scarred face he'd passed on his way back to his apartment.

But then, at just a little past nine o'clock, his phone had buzzed and all his plans for the evening had changed in a single moment.

The call hadn't lasted long, with none of their usual bantering exchange, but that didn't matter. Ryuzaki had called him. He wanted to see him.

Light almost couldn't keep the smile from his lips.

For just a moment, he spared a thought to wonder if it was entirely normal to be so interested in someone whose real name he technically didn't even know. Someone who, by all evidence, was most likely engaged in a profession of the less-than-legal and more-dangerous-than-reasonable sort. Perhaps it wasn't quite normal.

Light's knuckles rapped smartly on the door.

Normal was just another word for average, and average wasn't something Light had ever cared about. This – the breathless excitement, the curious exploration into the new and the unknown – was enough for Light, and pointless concerns about what was or was not normal didn't even need to factor in.

The door opened, and Light's smile was already curling higher upwards even before his eyes met Ryuzaki's.

A familiar trill sang its way up his spine. He bit down on his grin, trying for something less intemperate, though he didn't even try to stop the warmth he knew was creeping into his eyes.

"Hi."

Ryuzaki just nodded and widened the door's opening, allowing Light to slip inside.

It was funny, Light reflected, how familiar Ryuzaki's hotel suite was becoming. He could count on one hand the number times he'd been there, yet already the sight of the cool leather furniture and expansive windows was as welcoming as the walls of his own apartment. He could feel the atmosphere tugging at his stress and stripping away the tension built up between his shoulder blades, and almost automatically he felt his body begin to relax.

Except…except there was something off, something missing; even before Light realized what it was, its absence was prickling uncomfortably at the back of his awareness.

And then, in an unexpected, stomach-dropping moment, he realized what was wrong: the computers were gone. The tangled mass of laptops and computers and blinking, purring machines was completely disappeared, leaving nothing but a conspicuous blank spot of pressed carpet where it had previously stood.

"Ryuzaki," Light spoke slowly, turning to him in confusion, a tiny smile still clinging to his mouth with stubborn optimism. "Where are all the-" his voice cut itself off abruptly the moment he saw Ryuzaki's face, and in that instant he knew something was very wrong.

Ryuzaki's face was perfectly, utterly blank, devoid of any emotion, and it was absolutely the worst expression Light could have imagined. It wasn't the type of blank he was familiar with seeing on his almost-lover, when Ryuzaki's face would pull itself out smooth and his eyes would go wide and innocent, a hint of mischief lurking beneath the surface – it wasn't like that at all. _That_ expression was very alive for all that Ryuzaki tried to wipe it clean, a slow-growing affection hiding on the seams, just out of sight but still discernable.

This look now, this dulled expression on Ryuzaki's face was nothing like the teasing faux-innocence that felt like a secret joke shared between friends. _This_ expression was empty, completely drained of any warmth, and the black of Ryuzaki's eyes was distant and withdrawn and terribly, terribly _dead._

And Light's mind was sharp – maybe too sharp sometimes – but even though his gut seemed to know what was happening here he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Ryuzaki?" The name was spoken as a question, soft and inevitable and a bit cutting around the edges, and it might have a hurt a little as it sliced its way out of his mouth but Light didn't have time to pay that any mind. "What's going on?"

Ryuzaki didn't answer. As the silence between them grew, Light could feel his gaze narrowing.

"Why," he said instead, hard and low, and this time it didn't sound like a question at all, just a demand for answers. _Why are you leaving?_

For a moment, he thought Ryuzaki wasn't going to answer again. Then Ryuzaki looked away and shrugged his slouched shoulders.

"Because I don't like to share," he said, nonsensically. His voice was hollow, chillingly so, and Light felt a dreadful click within his bones. This had to be a joke – but it wasn't, Light knew it wasn't, though that didn't stop the disbelief from crawling along his skin like a spider's touch.

But Ryuzaki's face was too empty for this not to be real. He was really leaving, really trying to end whatever was beginning between the two of them, for the inane reason that he _didn't like to share_.

This was real.

Light's fingers on his right hand curled at his side, one by one, then stretched downwards again as he very carefully did not punch Ryuzaki right in his cryptic nose.

"Explain what you mean," he said, and again it was very much a demand. Ryuzaki wasn't allowed to do this, not when Light had just started to imagine possibilities and potentials, and he definitely didn't get to do it with enigmatic explanations and guarded, averted eyes.

Ryuzaki shrugged again, a small, infuriating movement.

"It doesn't matter," he took it upon himself to decide. "This had to end eventually; might as well be now. It was becoming a little monotonous, would you not agree?" His eyes finally met Light's again, still lifeless and empty as before, and Light felt a moment's flash of concern for Ryuzaki before anger shoved it out of the way.

"No," Light declared firmly. "No. Don't even think about pulling this shit on me, Ryuzaki, don't you dare. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending this is just a random decision because you got _bored_. That's a lie and we both know it."

Ryuzaki shrugged yet again, and if he didn't stop doing that Light was very possibly going to react in violent ways.

"Believe what you like. In any case, this is goodbye, Yagami-kun. It was…pleasant knowing you."

Light laughed – couldn't help himself – and the noise sounded harsh and ugly even to his ears. He wondered if he was perhaps going mad, because by all rights Ryuzaki should have been aching for Light's presence by now, missing him like an alcoholic missed his drink – not pretending to have grown bored of him. He should have been thrumming inside for Light just like Light had been thrumming inside for him, eager and excited and maybe a bit wary but still very much addicted. Or maybe even hating Light with a passion, Light didn't know; just anything other than this – this chilled _indifference_.

It didn't make sense. It was too far outside of his calculations for Ryuzaki to have just independently decided it was time to end things; something must have happened to drive him here. Something big. Something significant. Something Light felt sure he could deal with if only he knew _what the hell it was_.

"Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me what happened. We can talk about it, figure something out, but you don't get to just run off and decide on your own that suddenly you want to pretend you're bored with this all. Afraid, maybe, but not bored." His voice was hardening, his anger stirring and his eyes flaring. "Don't waste my time with that complete _bullshit_ just because you're too scared to face up to what's happening between us. You aren't allowed to be such a coward."

Light knew he was striking out now in an attempt to provoke Ryuzaki out of his shell of indifference he'd withdrawn into. He didn't care; there was a sense of deadened inevitability in Ryuzaki's eyes that was enough to scare Light down to his core, enough to make him do anything just to shake Ryuzaki free of whatever hopeless demon had possessed him.

But Ryuzaki wasn't even looking at him. His dead, cold eyes were lingering on the wall beside them, and there was no hint of relenting in their gaze.

Light took two swift steps forward, cupping his hands around Ryuzaki's neck and forcing his eyes to meet his own.

"Talk to me," he appealed quietly, switching tracks yet again. "Just talk to me here. We've never really talked about this thing between us, have we? I didn't think we needed to – I always thought we were on the same page, and words weren't necessary. No, I _knew_ we were on the same page. I wasn't imagining it, so don't even think about pretending it was never there. This thing, this thing between us, it was just as significant for you as it was for me – I _know_ it was. So just talk to me. Tell me what the hell happened to make you like this, like a goddamn zombie or something. Just _talk _to me, Ryuzaki."

Light didn't know when he had last felt so desperate beneath his veneer of calm control – probably never. Light didn't _do _desperate, didn't do frantic and panicked and pleadingly intent. But that was before Ryuzaki.

"Talk to me." He was whispering now, looking back and forth between Ryuzaki's eyes, searching for a hint of the man who'd become so important to him – just how important he hadn't fully realized until now. "Tell me what's wrong."

He knew his veneer was cracking. It was sickening, the way his world was so suddenly and completely turned on its end without any say from him, the way Ryuzaki had managed to shake him to his core. It should have been exhilarating but it _wasn't_, not now – not now Ryuzaki was about to rip everything away from him.

For all of his analogies of gambles and risks, Light had never actually thought this relationship could fall apart so suddenly. It was just supposed to be the thrill of the unknown, the danger that _maybe_ he would actually lose on the gamble – it wasn't supposed to really happen.

He'd been prepared for Ryuzaki's hesitation. He hadn't been prepared for this.

And still Ryuzaki wouldn't even speak.

It felt as if an icy black hand had wrapped around his heart, threatening to crush it to ashes. It was a struggle to maintain his usual command over his body, the command he'd spent his entire life refining. He'd never shown so much of himself, like a gaping wound to his very core, but the alarm he normally would have felt was overwhelmed in the face of Ryuzaki threatening to destroy all their potential.

Suddenly his mask didn't matter if, by discarding it, he could stop this from happening.

His fingers stroked with a feather's touch against Ryuzaki's nape, the tips slipping through his hair.

"Don't shut me out, not now," he whispered softly, persuasively. "We can sort this out. Just don't run away from this. _Tell me_ you aren't going to run away. Tell me."

When Ryuzaki still didn't respond, Light bit back on his pride and used a word he'd never actually spoken in earnest.

"Please," he breathed out, barely audible. "_Please_, Ryuzaki. Please, please talk to me."

It was a form of manipulation, this quiet pleading – he knew that, he'd used it before, but this was different. This was _real_, and it left him feeling raw and, for a moment, completely, utterly naked. It was true vulnerability, entirely unlike the faux-vulnerability he usually displayed, which was merely a ploy to use others' pride and desires against themselves.

This – this was honest and visceral. This was his skin clawed away to expose the bare bones of him, an offering he'd never thought he'd give.

If it kept this infuriating, brilliant, unparalleled man from tossing aside everything they could be together, a relationship that could take both of them places they'd never reach otherwise, then the desperate bid would be worth it.

But Ryuzaki's face was cold and stony, unmoved. He wouldn't even look at Light.

Light's stomach sank, a hard fury taking over slowly. He was practically throwing himself at Ryuzaki, and Ryuzaki was too cowardly to even meet his eyes anymore. Light was at his limit.

"_Fuck you_." His voice was scarcely above a whisper, the edges harsh and ragged like splintered ice. "Fuck you, you bastard, and tell me what the _hell _is going on. We're incredible together, and you know it. We could be perfect, you and me, and you _know_ it. So if you _dare_ let your goddamn personal hang-ups get in the way of what we could build together, I'll-"

"You will do what, Yagami-kun?" Ryuzaki spoke at last, a defiant spark to his challenge, his gaze shifting to Light's. It seemed Ryuzaki was at his limit as well; the cold indifference was at once gone from his eyes, its place taken by a contemptuous fire that turned Light's blood to ice.

Taken aback, Light's tongue froze to the roof of his mouth and he found himself without words. Abruptly unsettled, he felt like a rug had been swept out under his feet without warning.

A burning hatred blazed within Ryuzaki's gaze that Light had never seen before, and suddenly he remembered that, however close he'd grown to the man in the previous weeks, closer than anyone else in his life, there was still an ocean's worth he didn't know about him.

Ryuzaki took ruthless advantage of Light's surprised silence.

"Please do not flatter yourself," he continued, slipping back into a perfectly polite tone, the ice creeping back, as though he regretted his earlier slip into passion. "Do not exaggerate our relationship into something more than reality. I regret if I gave you the wrong impression, but there was never anything between us but what I thought to be a mutual desire for casual intercourse. Any resultant misunderstanding is unfortunate. As I will be shortly leaving the country, I thought it practical to inform you of the necessary end of our relations, and while I realize this could have been accomplished over the phone, I thought that, considering the amount of time we have spent in each other's presence, you would appreciate a face-to-face encounter. Simply to ensure that there are no, as you might say, 'hard feelings'."

For a moment, Light couldn't find his voice. But only a moment.

"Bullshit."

Ryuzaki didn't even blink. "Again, it is unfortunate there was such a misunderstanding between us."

_It is unfortunate_ – that wasn't an apology, and it definitely wasn't compliance.

"No." Light shook his head, refusing the words. "Didn't you listen to me earlier? You're not allowed to pretend it was only ever fucking. It might have started out that way, but we _both_ know that it didn't stay like that. You were feeling something too – a connection, an emotional affinity, whatever the hell you want to call it, you were feeling it too. The sex was fantastic, I admit, but don't even try to pretend that was all there was." He laughed suddenly, humorlessly. "I don't think you can even look me in the eye and say it was just sex."

He hadn't meant for that to come out as a challenge but it did anyway, so he had only himself to blame when those blank-again, wide eyes bored directly into his own and Ryuzaki spoke with devastating clarity and enunciation.

"I am regretful, Yagami-kun. That was all there was. Simply sex, and nothing more."

The words hurt more than Light would have imagined. It didn't matter he knew they were false; they still stung like a backhand against his face.

He swallowed, his throat tight.

"Bullshit." He couldn't do anything else, only could deny what he knew to be counterfeit.

Ryuzaki's mouth clicked shut, and his shoulders shrugged dismissingly. "It is unfortunate you feel that way."

Light's hands, forgotten before, tangled into Ryuzaki's hair, tight and unforgiving. "_Shut up_." The words tore themselves from his mouth. "Just shut up. Just shut up and tell me what's wrong."

"Your emotional reaction," Ryuzaki spoke quietly, "to what should have been an easy and amicable farewell, only demonstrates to me what I should have realized from the beginning of our interactions: you are far too young. I am regretful, Yagami-kun, for this mistake. I should have known better."

Light's smile was brittle, completely devoid of humor, and his voice felt hoarse and raspy, so unlike the smooth tone he usually adopted. "You're an awful liar. Stop deflecting and tell me what's wrong."

There was a flash of something in Ryuzaki's eyes, covered again by flint. "Unhand me, please."

"No, I will not 'unhand' you. Tell me what's wrong."

"If you are incapable of removing yourself from this room, I will be forced to call security to do it for you. Wallington is only a shout away."

"Go ahead," Light challenged. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong."

Ryuzaki turned his face away stubbornly, as though he could make Light go away simply by not looking at him.

"This conversation is over, Yagami-kun. Do not force me to employ legal measures against you. I doubt your father would appreciate the opportunity to arrest his own son."

Light's laugh was scornful now, edgy, and his fingers didn't break their hold. "I'm as stubborn as you are, _darling_. Threaten all you like. All I want to know is why you're doing this – no bullshit, no lies." Then his voice dropped, soft and pleading, all traces of mockery gone. His fingers loosened their grip, stroking gently again. The breathless ache was creeping back. "Just…tell me what's wrong. You can trust me, Ryuzaki. I'm here. I-" he broke off and took a steadying breath.

He spoke his next words with no hesitation.

"I think I'm falling in love with you. God knows how it happened, but I am. It wasn't supposed to happen. Do you understand? I'm falling in love with you, and I don't want to stop. So trust me. Please, Ryuzaki, trust me."

He hadn't meant to speak those words, not yet. He shouldn't have needed to show his hand so early in the game.

But it was necessary.

"Trust me," he whispered, pulling his body closer to Ryuzaki's unyielding frame. "Trust me." Light pulled Ryuzaki's face to meet his own.

Never before had he seen eyes as hard and unforgiving as those that were suddenly leveled at him.

"I am not in the habit," Ryuzaki uttered very slowly, "of trusting whores and liars."

Light's hands dropped of their own accord. His feet, unbidden, stumbled backwards a step at the undisguised disgust in Ryuzaki's tone.

"What?"

Black eyes didn't waver. "I do not think I should need to repeat myself, but since you appear to be atypically slow-witted today, I will make this very clear.

"Our relations, Yagami Light, are at an end. I have no desire to see or hear from you again. If you attempt to come into contact with me or any of my employees, including Mello, I will take irreparable legal action. More than that, if our paths should ever cross again, I will do everything within my power to expose your unlawful and immoral behavior. Is that sufficiently comprehensible?"

Incredulity was the only sensation Light was aware of. It wasn't a rug swept under his feet – it was the entire world, dropped away out of orbit, leaving him suspended and adrift and utterly lost.

Until it all crashed back.

It came in a flash-fire of emotion, tearing through him and burning away any vulnerability: fury foremost, all-encompassing and unabated; sharp disbelief, lingering stubbornly; confusion, hard on its heels; and finally, a cold finger of fear trailing down the back of his neck, an echo. _Unlawful behavior._

Ryuzaki couldn't know. He didn't; there was no way – _did he know?_

No. Light was too careful, and it was much too early in the game for anyone to be suspicious. The only way Ryuzaki could know would be if he actually follow-

"I saw you today."

The blood in Light's body suddenly all disappeared. He felt pale and empty, a ghost.

But he reigned himself in – now was not the time for mistakes. He met Ryuzaki's eyes, his body as still as stone, his words deliberate.

"You have five seconds, Ryuzaki, to start explaining what the fuck you're talking about. I hope you realize how much you have to answer for."

Ryuzaki regarded him, no sign of warmth in his dark eyes.

"Interesting. Do you deny it then?"

Light stared back, lips tight, and didn't blink. "Deny _what_."

Ryuzaki cocked his head, a gruesome parody of the playful gesture it used to be. His thumb was at his lips.

"That you have engaged in the act of selling sexual services, presumably for monetary recompense?"

The confusion was back and strong, but Light didn't let it show. "Why would you think that?" he asked neutrally.

Ryuzaki just tilted his head farther. "Let us speak hypothetically a moment, Yagami-kun. Suppose a person is seen leaving his place of residence wearing clothes meant to obscure his identity. Suppose this person then takes pains to leave behind any curious parties following after him. Then, suppose this person enters a small flat – which, with a little research, is discovered to be rented by someone who does not exist. Shortly after, this person is joined by an older male who, besides having an obviously furtive air, also bears no known relation to the person in question. Let us also suppose this person is reasonably attractive, a skilled liar, arrogantly holds himself to a separate set of moral standards than the majority of the population, and is considerably experienced sexually, particularly for his youthful age. What is the sole conclusion that logically presents itself?"

Something was fighting to tear itself from Light's lungs. He didn't know if it was hysterical laughter or a broken scream of rage; either one was a terrible idea, so he bit on his tongue and sank back further into his masks, layers and layers of masks, never intending to leave himself bare again.

Ryuzaki thought he was a prostitute. It was hilarious. Unbearably hilarious.

Light's masks smiled for him.

"Well. I can't say I was expecting you to catch on so soon," he said lightly, "but there it is. Guess it's out now."

Irony had never tasted so bitter on his tongue, his lips twisting in a harsh smile.

"So you admit it," Ryuzaki confirmed, his black stare guarded.

Light didn't hesitate. "Looks like I am," he answered. Lies had always slipped smoothly from his mouth, and this was no exception. This was comfortable; this was easy.

More importantly, this was his only option. It wasn't as if he could say what was really going on in that suspicious little apartment in the dirty part of town, and he had no other explanation within reach that would satisfy Ryuzaki.

It was over.

There was nothing salvageable here – nothing but a snarling hatred, left to slowly sink into Light's chest and cling to his sternum like a blackened demon. It fed on the fire of his anger and licked greedily at his ravaged wounds, and Light nursed it with a savage satisfaction.

He had put everything on the line. Ryuzaki had thrown it all back in his face.

He was done here.

"Was there anything else you needed?" he asked with only the barest of sarcasm.

Ryuzaki's thumb, immobile, slipped slowly along the line of his bottom lip as he shook his head. "That is all."

"Good." Light's breath hissed between his teeth as he spoke. With one last smile, his best and coldest, he turned on his heel and left the room for the last time. At the doorway, he paused and tossed out, "Oh, and I think you'll find there is very little you can convict me of. Japanese laws and the technical definition of 'coitus', you know. It makes it fairly easy for whores to slip under the radar. But the threat was a nice effect anyway." The doorknob was cold in his palm. "Goodbye, Ryuzaki."

When the suite door shut behind him, it did so with the softest of clicks – more satisfying than any foundation-shaking slam. Each step Light took down the narrow hallway echoed with finality, his mind cold and set.

To his front, the elevator doors slid open in welcome.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Happy New Year! (Give or take a bit - it's still several hours for me.) Have some angst.<em>

_I have massive amounts of guilt for how unforgivably late this chapter is, especially considering the overwhelmingly lovely response I got last chapter – I was, quite honestly, bowled over by you guys, so thank you each a thousand times. I'm very sorry for the disappearing act I pulled the last couple of months. Real Life and I have been getting it on like a pair of rabbits lately, and my fanfiction addiction got the shaft as a result._

_(Also, I'm pleased to report, albeit a bit late, that my nephew narrowly avoided a frightening fate and has been named Beck, which is much less unfortunate than Gordon. Sadly, the 'Gordon' did elbow its way in as the middle name, so he's not completely free of it. I'm still calling him Voldemort behind my sister-in-law's back, though he looks much more like Buddha at the moment. I think he wants to be a tree trunk when he grows up.)_

_I LOVE YOU ALL. Best New Year wishes. Next chapter should be out much sooner this time (knock on wood)._


	16. Mistakes and Memories and Moving On

**Chapter Sixteen**

_Mistakes and Memories and Moving On_

* * *

><p>Light allowed himself four hours for the inevitable fallout: four hours to rage, four hours to dwell, four hours to remember and hate how he'd stood there in the center of that hotel suite and made a fool of himself as Ryuzaki performed his impression of a damned stone wall.<p>

Four hours to remember the defenselessness as he _stupidly _opened himself up like a naïve little girl in love for the first time.

But no – this wasn't Light's fault. This was Ryuzaki's fault, that sneaking, spying, emotionally-stunted little _bastard_, and Light wouldn't allow the blame to fall anywhere but on those spindly, hunched shoulders.

It didn't truly matter, anyway; while his pride insisted he remember the vulnerability he had felt tonight, the raw, harsh nakedness, the truth of the matter was he had _shown_ much less than he had felt. Any emotionality he displayed could all be excused away as a ploy to keep Ryuzaki in Japan, just another game of pretend like he had played before with so many other boyfriends.

It only had to be significant if Light let it be. So what if he'd admitted to falling in love – he didn't have to mean it. Ryuzaki couldn't know for sure that Light had spoken honestly; in fact, if he even bothered thinking about it, he'd probably insist to himself that Light had been lying about it, just as he believed Light had been lying about everything else.

Light had made a mistake, but it wasn't irremediable. That was what mattered.

Four hours, then he was done. Even if four hours was more import than Ryuzaki deserved.

For the first hour, Light did little more than sit at his kitchen counter, the lights bright and harsh above him, and let all his emotions war and stew within him: his white-hot anger, his simmering ire, his limping pride that he was quickly restoring. He didn't try to stop the emotional cocktail from coursing through him; he just rode out each wave as it surged throughout his body and mind.

He needed this. He needed to drive the memory of this night into his bones so he remembered his mistake – his miscalculation – and never made it again.

Light didn't actually need anyone. He'd never wanted to give anyone that sort of power of him. So what if his potential to build something with Ryuzaki had been shot down – it didn't matter. He'd never wanted love with all its bothersome attachment, and if he'd temporarily been convinced he'd like to give it a go with Ryuzaki, that mad bastard with his wild hair and infuriating quirks, then at least now his eyes were fully open to his error.

Falling in love didn't mean something had to – or even should – come of it.

It was a door closed to him, but that was all. Light wasn't going to waste his days pining after what could have been.

Twenty minutes into the first hour, he got up and poured himself a glass of wine, dark and smooth and sweet.

Perhaps the vodka he kept in the back of his freezer would have been more fitting for the occasion, delivering a harder punch that could numb him better – but the elegant wine made him feel more like himself, so he sipped at it quietly and let his anger burn itself away, searing its parting reminder into his marrow. He would learn from this, and he would remember.

For the second hour, Light walked.

He left his apartment and let the harsh night air carry away the heat of his anger, until all that was left was ice and steel and determination. His feet didn't lead him aimlessly; he knew exactly where he wanted to end up, but until he arrived there, he allowed the nighttime to swallow him into its embrace, lending him its cold strength.

Eighteen minutes before the start of the third hour, Light opened the door to apartment 204 and slipped inside.

Working on automatic, he went about preparing himself a cup of tea in the tiny, cramped kitchen, and when it was cooling on the strip of counter between the stove and the peeling wall, he finally turned his attention to the locked and rigged bathroom door just down the narrow hallway.

He had been unforgivably careless earlier, if Ryuzaki had somehow managed to follow him here despite all his precautions. Light could admit to himself now that he had been somewhat lax in assuming that it was too early in the game for any serious danger of discovery. It had only been because of luck that Ryuzaki had jumped to the wrong conclusion and so neatly handed Light an excuse – luck and Ryuzaki's own hasty judgment.

Light couldn't afford to rely on luck like that again; he'd need to be more careful in the future.

For a moment, he let himself consider what could have happened if he'd given up his most important secret to Ryuzaki – if he'd defended himself and explained what was really going on within these walls.

It might have wiped away the righteousness judgment and ice-cold hate in those black eyes. Maybe. Light had no sure idea what Ryuzaki's opinion on forgery was, but it was probably less severe than his views on prostitution had turned out to be – at least when Light was involved.

It might have cleared the air of misunderstandings and set a foundation for honest sharing between them, rather than the '_you don't dig into my business and I won't dig into yours'_ policy they'd been operating under thus far. Maybe.

It might have even stopped Ryuzaki from running away. Maybe. But probably not.

In truth, all it probably would have accomplished was drive the final nail into the coffin of their relationship – and, more than that, it without a doubt would have given Ryuzaki too much power over Light. It would have exposed both Light and Mikami to the whims of a man Light didn't know if he could trust – around whom Light wasn't even certain he could trust himself anymore.

When it came down to a _possible_ real relationship with Ryuzaki versus keeping his work with his forgeries safe, it was obvious which would come out on top.

He couldn't regret his decision to leave Ryuzaki in the dark. Especially not when Ryuzaki was already clearly determined to run.

And maybe later Light would be able to forgive Ryuzaki for his fear, his emotional cowardice, his stubborn refusal to leave himself even a little vulnerable, his goddamned insistence on hiding behind fake names and hard, cutting words and the walls he built around himself. Maybe he'd even forgive him for the words that slipped out of Light's own mouth, the _I think I'm falling in love_ and the quiet, earnest _please_.

Maybe.

But not now. Not for a long time.

The hell of it was, Light knew that from an outside perspective his own behavior would be seen as needy, embarrassing, maybe even delusional. From an outside perspective, Light should have conceded gracefully to Ryuzaki's decision to leave, perhaps given him a quick peck and a _thanks for the fun_ before walking out of that hotel suite with his dignity fully intact. _It was just a casual fling_, others would say. _You should have let him go without argument._

Ryuzaki had said as much, in fact – that Light was too young, too immature, his emotional reaction too unseemly. It was bullshit.

Light may have been young, but he wasn't an idiot. He _knew_ there had been more between them, a connection and a deeper affinity lurking beneath the surface, only really showing late at night when defenses were down and their bodies were entwined in the warmth of shared sleep. But they had never discussed it – that was part of the fun, the game. They let it hide in the subtext and the nuances, not once verbally admitting to it. But it was still there: in their speaking glances of quiet amusement and growing affection; in their sharp, grinning banter; in the way their fingers traced their wonderment of each other into sweaty, sated skin when they thought the other was safely asleep.

It didn't matter now. None of it was of any significance now, consigned to remain simply as memories and a bitter warning – the first true miscalculation Yagami Light had made in his adult life.

In the silence of the apartment, Light unlocked and entered the bathroom and methodically began to prepare his supplies. He ignored his incomplete Chagall – with its bright, bold colors and vibrant life oozing from every inch – in favor of the clean, blank canvases stacked beside the sink. His easel, paint-spotted but sturdy, was unfolded and propped up in the main room, his brushes carefully lined up one-by-one, his paint poured into their small glass dishes in preparation.

He even brought out and lit some cheap candles he kept in the closet for emergencies, not wanting the hard, unflattering electric lights glaring on him as he worked. The candles wouldn't provide enough light for his usual lofty standards – there was no substitute for natural sunlight – but he wasn't working on any forgeries tonight so it was of little matter.

When all else was ready, he scattered his little dishes of paint around the smooth wooden floor, placing each one carefully and deliberately, and in the guttering candlelight they looked like tiny fairy boats floating on an enchanted sea. Shadows thrown against the walls flickered and danced, looming around him like demons from another world as he selected his first brush and paint of the night, his canvas prepared and waiting. There was a surreal feeling to the room, that late-night magic when most of the world was asleep and dreaming, and Light found himself caught in the pull of the spell, feeling almost suspended in time.

With the gentle reverence of a lover, he dipped his brush into blood-red paint and – breath held, eyes drifting half-shut – began.

For the remaining time of his allotted four hours, Light painted, forgetting himself in the demands of the colors coming to life beneath his fingers. Even when his time was over he didn't stop; he painted on for hours, continuing late into the night, sleep forgotten. He didn't eat, barely even paused to sip at his tea, his fingers leaving paint smears behind on his chipped cup. Slowly, the heat from the drink dissipated away into the stale air of the apartment, each mouthful of tea becoming a bit cooler than the last, until the dregs were barely even lukewarm. Light hardly noticed; his entire world at the moment was made up of the reds and blacks and blues and silvers that soared across his canvas and burned behind his eyes, beneath his skin. All else was superfluous: food and sleep and drink and, most of all, Ryuzaki.

The longer he painted the more he forgot himself – the more he became himself. He washed away any remnants of Ryuzaki's touch on his skin and his soul: memories of the mad desire, the almost-love, the exhilaration, the restless curiosity for more.

He didn't bother with recreating anyone else's work tonight; he simply painted faces of people he'd never met before, strangers caught in sudden surprise, lovers burning in dark passion, children crying in fright.

While his brush danced, he felt paradoxically both consumed and empowered as he slowly lost his sense of self yet still controlled these painted lives, spilling their secrets all across the canvas; and, for just a moment, he felt like a god.

He didn't know what he'd do with the paintings when he was done – maybe burn them, maybe keep them as a reminder. It didn't matter. Tonight was an anomaly, and whatever madness was flirted with here would be seared away by the morning sun.

Life would go on, and Light would face it and demand from it all that he usually did. But for tonight, he slipped away into a hidden-away realm, and he painted.

* * *

><p>Mello's fingers drummed impatiently against his thighs, his pajamas cool against his skin.<p>

It was a quarter after six in the morning and he was waiting – impatiently, perhaps, but still waiting – for Matt to get in for the day and call him, just as he'd done for the past four days since they'd parted. It meant Mello had to wake up at an obscenely early hour just to make the time differences to work, but he didn't think even once to complain; he got to talk to Matt, so it was entirely worth it.

He checked his phone, double-checked the time, and debated whether he should get up and make himself some coffee. Or maybe hot chocolate. Or maybe he should just curl back into bed and take his phone with him – New York was cold enough to freeze his balls off this time of year, and he knew his sheets would still be plenty warm.

It didn't help any when he remembered Near was in southern California right now with its bloody summer heat year-round, the little fucker. It figured _he'd_ be sent to the American coast with the sunshine, while Mello slowly froze to death on the other end of the country in the godforsaken cold.

But all thoughts of the cold and weather-induced envy banished the moment his cell phone began ringing. Mello scrambled about a little, almost knocking his phone to the floor in his haste to pick up, but he managed to get it to his ear just fine.

"Hello," he answered it immediately, a little breathlessly.

"_Hey there, Mels."_

It was almost funny the way all the tension drained from Mello's body the instant he heard Matt's voice on the other end. A grin slid to his lips without a thought.

"Hey. How's Newcastle?"

"_If I tell you how warm and beautiful it is here are you going to be depressed?"_

"Yep," Mello answered unequivocally.

"_It's really cold,"_ Matt promptly assured him. _"And ugly. Did I mention how cold it is? Ice everywhere. And snow. People walking around in Eskimo coats, penguins sliding around all over the place – definitely not short-sleeve weather and sunshine."_

Mello laughed, his empty flat somehow feeling just a little warmer.

"Nah," he said, "I'm just kidding. You don't needta lie – I'm glad you're somewhere sunny. At least one of us can enjoy the warmth."

"_Yeah, well, it's nice and everything, but it's not like I really go outside that often."_

"Ya got a point there. Hey, speaking of, learn anything interesting today?"

Matt snorted over the phone line. _"Dude, this guy L has me tutoring under? He's totally mad. I mean, brilliant and all, but absolutely bat-shit insane. I told you about how he sneaked into my flat yesterday morning at like three o'clock and stuck a frozen water bottle on my feet to wake me up, yeah? And then made me hack into the M15 databases before he let me go back to sleep? So, guess what he did today. Four words, man: pet snake in bed."_

Mello tried really hard not to cackle like a madman, but he was pretty sure he didn't quite muffle it in time.

"Shit, that really sucks," he managed in a decent attempt at sympathy, smothering his sniggers in his fist. "Nothing poisonous, right?"

"_Nah,"_ Matt answered. _"It just sort of wriggled up my leg before I woke up and flailed around like a motherfucker. Seriously, it's lucky I didn't squash it. And it's okay – I can hear you wheezing over there, go ahead and laugh."_

Mello took him at his word and allowed his mirth to bubble over from his chest, while Matt listened with almost audible long-suffering on the other end. Mello felt bad, but just a little; the image of Matt's horrified face as he awoke to a snake squirming its way up his leg was just a little too hilarious.

When Mello's cackling faded away into quiet snickers, Matt spoke up again.

"_I know, right? The guy's bloody insane. And we thought L was bad."_

"Yeah, I can't say I remember L ever putting live animals in our beds. But then, remember that time in Africa when he-"

"_Mello, I love you man, but you were asking for it that time. You called him a kitty and rubbed his head. You told him to _purr _for you. Did you actually think he'd let you get away with that?"_

Despite himself, Mello chuckled into the phone. "Oh yeah. Totally worth it though. 'Sides, I got to see more of the beautiful African scenery." He shifted on his couch – an ugly little grey thing that came with the flat – and ran his palm hard down the top of his thigh. "But hey, fucked-up alarm clocks aside, you're actually learning useful shit, right? I mean, L isn't just wasting your time sending you to this guy?"

Matt paused before he answered, but when he spoke there was very little hesitation in his voice. _"No, I'm learning a lot. This guy, Jack, he's pretty…unorthodox in how thinks. I mean, we got some comparatively out-of-the-box thinking at Wammy's, yeah? Jack, he's not just out of the box, he's outta the galaxy or something. His approach is completely different from anything I've really ever encountered, and just the way he looks at life and computers and everything is so…different and revolutionary. And he's fast, man. Have I told you about some of the shit he can do with computers? Blew my mind, honest-to-god."_

Mello could hear the shift in Matt's voice as a rare enthusiasm took over, lending a spark and excitement to his words that Mello rarely heard from his friend. He was glad to hear it now; there was very little that could push Matt out of his casual indifference of the world, and anytime he found something inspiring in any way it was a rare experience.

Mello just wished he could be there to see the way Matt's eyes shone when he talked about anything that excited him. He bet right now Matt was gesturing wildly with one hand (well, wildly for Matt – it was probably still pretty subdued by conventional standards), twirling his cigarette through the air and occasionally scattering ashes when he forgot to tap them off.

Fucking L and his _fucking_ year-long training.

"…_And I mean, I really am learning a lot from Jack,"_ Matt continued, his voice sinking back into his usual lazy tone,_ "but there's no way in hell it's gonna take a whole year to learn everything. I'd say five months, tops, and even that's generous."_

"So, what d'you think you're gonna do with the extra time?" Mello asked, oddly anxious. "I mean, I'll still be in training, and L said we can't… I mean… you know."

"Yeah, I dunno," Matt said, and Mello could hear the shrug in his voice. "Suppose I could do what I did before and follow L around, but…"

"…But it's not the same," Mello finished quietly. "And since you don't wanna succeed L, there's really no reason for you to put up with his shit."

"_Yeah, not really. I mean, not if you're not there. Just 'cause the two of us are kinda a team, you know?"_

Mello laughed hollowly. "Trust me man, I know. I feel like I'm missing my fucking arms here or something. The cops L's got me working with probably think I'm a useless bag of shit, 'cause it's so…disorienting not working with you. I need to get my shit together. I mean, we've worked apart before, but this is different."

"_Yeah,"_ Matt agreed. _"It's different."_

"But hey," Mello said, trying to brighten the conversation again from the melancholy it had descended into. "You could use the time to do all the shit you've ever wanted to but haven't, what with following L around. You could, I dunno, travel the world and um…_not_ catch criminals while you're doing it. Or hole up somewhere and play video games for months. No actually, don't do that. I don't want to meet up after the year and find you're just a bag of bones and skin because you didn't stop playing Grand Theft Auto long enough to eat."

Matt chuckled quietly, the sound a rush of noise over the phone. _"Christ Mels, I'm not that bad."_

"Oh yeah?" Mello challenged. "Do I have to remind you of the summer you were paler than fucking Near because you never took your hands off the Nintendo to go outside? I don't think you even slept. I practically had to put food in your mouth and move your jaw around for you."

"_C'mon, I was thirteen. I haven't done that for years."_

"Obviously you haven't, or you'd be dead by now."

"_Yeah, yeah, okay – I promise not to go out of control with the video games."_

"Good," Mello nodded smugly and grinned.

"_As long as you promise not to pick up a shitload of STDs over the next year," _Matt countered, sliding in the stipulation easily_. "I know you're usually pretty careful about that sorta thing, but when you're smashed and pissed off at someone you don't really think about it."_

"Dude," Mello laughed, "that is so not even a problem right now. It's way too cold to even think about getting it up. I don't care what anyone says; sending me here was totally L's revenge for that fucking mess with Light."

"_Well, yeah. You pulled a gun on them, Mello. What exactly were you expecting? A free trip to Bora Bora?"_

"It might have been nice, yeah, considering he wasn't exactly blameless. But hell, I woulda taken fucking Kansas over New York in February."

"_Whatever. You would not."_

Mello grinned. "Okay, maybe not. But it's still bloody freezing."

"_Don't doubt it, man. But hey, how're you doing? I mean, not just the cold. Just everything."_

"Is this your sneaky way of trying to ask about Light?"

"_Eh, just checking in with everything. 'Cause y'know, it was kind of a mucked up week. The whole mess with Light, then right afterwards we start into this year-long thing. And, y'know, the cold. That's kinda…not fun. All that at once."_

"Yeah, I'm doing okay," Mello said, getting up to quietly pace, bare feet padding around on cold carpet. "Look, that whole thing with Light… That was a shitfest. It's like, I'm going along, and I like the guy, right? Don't get me wrong, I knew I liked him – I wouldn'ta fucked him so long if I didn't. But I didn't really expect… It just took me by surprise, y'know? Caring about him. I'm not used to feeling so blind. I usually go into that sort of thing with my eyes open and aware I might end up caring about someone. I'd just rather know shit like that, right? I don't like the idea that I was hiding from it or anything."

"_Uh-huh, you've always been like that."_

"Yeah, I guess so. But it's just a fucking relief to _know _now. It's like, I can get past it just fine now that I know what's going on with my mind and everything. I mean, hell man, shit like this happens all the time, all over the world. You either have to get over it or wallow, right? And I'm not one for wallowing."

"_Heh, definitely not."_

"And then there's L," Mello continued, aggrieved, one rant slipping smoothly into the next. "Jesus _Christ_. You know that feeling how, when you're a kid and there's someone you really look up to? Like, idolize and everything. And then you grow up and see them without all the, I dunno, enthusiasm of youth, and you realize they're just another person?"

"_Yeah, I know."_

"See, I'd mostly gotten over that during the years we've actually worked with L. You know, got over the whole rude awakening that L isn't some perfect defender of justice. He's fucking brilliant, but he's totally human and a kinda messed-up one at that. But still sometimes I forget all that, then something happens and I remember that _oh yeah,_ L's really a childish little cunt sometimes. You know?"

"_I never forget L's a childish cunt."_

"Of course you don't," Mello agreed with a small grin, sinking back down onto the couch and tucking his feet up underneath himself for warmth. "I'm usually the one who gets swept away by enthusiasm."

"_Yeah. But I get your point. He's a dick. A smart dick, but still a dick."_

'Yeah." Mello burrowed himself farther into the couch, seeking warmth that wasn't there, and shifted the phone against his ear. "I gotta wonder how he and Light are getting on. I mean, wow. Those two? They'll either kill each other or fall in love. Or both."

There was a derisive snort from the other end of the line. _"Yeah well, either way it's gonna end in disaster."_

"Jesus, Matty – when did you get to be such a cynic?"

"_Dude. It's L. Take a second and imagine how he'd react to falling in love. Then tell me if you can see it becoming anything other than a huge clusterfuck."_

"Point," Mello conceded, rubbing a chilled hand along his opposite arm, trying to get some friction. "But you don't know Light like I do. I betcha he wouldn't let L squirrel out of anything, once Light decides he wants it."

"_Eh, maybe."_

"But then," he mused, considering, "do you think _Light_ could fall in love? Last I knew, he was pretty damn sure he didn't want to mess with it. Focused on other stuff, you know."

"_He's young,"_ Matt said dismissingly, with another one of those audible shrugs_. "He can change his mind."_

Mello laughed. "Matt, you realize he's only like a month younger than you? You sound like an old dude."

"_Well, look. He's not even out of his teens, right? A lot of shit changes for people over the next few years, at least usually. But L, he's turning twenty-six this year, and he's been settled into his ways so long he might as well be fifty. So what I'm saying is, Light's not gonna have nearly as much problem adapting as L will if they _do_ fall for each other."_

Mello grinned, interested in how much Matt seemed to have thought this out. "Huh. So you think love's a possibility between those two, then? That's kinda a turn-around from what you were saying… when was it, a week and a half ago?"

"_Nah, what I was saying then was that, one, it was too early for them to be in love – starting to fall in love is another matter. And two, I said L was too set in his ways to be _okay_ with love. Doesn't mean he won't be an idiot and slide right into it, then freak out."_

"You're a right little ray of sunshine. I'm pretty sure I'm the one supposed to be gloomy as fuck, what with all this snow," Mello teased.

"_Whatever. Hey, you're the one with the weird fascination with L's love life, anyway. I really couldn't give two shits about it."_

Grabbing a large throw pillow from the other end of the sofa, Mello huddled beneath it, fitting most of his legs and torso under its cover. "You know, you say that, but I don't really believe you."

"_That so?"_ Matt asked, challenging.

"Yeah," Mello nodded, though there was no one around to see. He curled his frozen toes down into crevice between the couch cushions, digging into the relative warmth found there among stray popcorn kernels and lost puzzle pieces and god knew what else that had found a home in there. "You're worried about that stupid bastard too."

For a moment, there was no sound from the other end of the line, just the absent sound of held breath. Then Matt gave a quiet sigh of resignation.

"_Yeah,"_ he agreed, sounding none too happy about it. _"Yeah, I guess am. Don't tell anyone."_

Mello's smile was small and fond, a departure from his usual loud grin.

"Don't worry, idiot" he promised, a warm laugh in his voice. "I won't."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ring…ring…ring.<strong>_

"_Hello?"_

"_Mikami. The finish date for the Chagall has been moved up. How soon can you have the papers ready and potential buyers lined up?"_

"…_Yagami-kun? The Chagall? The papers are already completed, but it will take approximately a week for buyers."_

"_Perfect. Begin the process, and make sure it all leads back to the mark. Contact me when you're ready and I'll get you the prints for the piece."_

"_Understood."_

"_Until then."_

_**Click.**_

* * *

><p>For an entire week, L didn't think of Light once.<p>

It was surprisingly easy. Montreal was a new place, with new sounds outside his hotel window, new smells as he slouched down busy streets with his head ducked, and a new, reasonably diverting opponent to keep him from anything he didn't want to think about.

It couldn't – and didn't – last. One morning in the cold light of dawn, as L stood outside on his narrow balcony and breathed in the victory of another murderer behind bars, memories of Light finally returned to plague him again. They slid into his mind like a mugger lurking in shadows, surprising him with their sudden insistence, vibrant and encompassing as they were.

The most predominate memories were unbearably intimate: the taste of Light's skin beneath his tongue, the sound of Light's laugh against the back of his ear, the feel of Light's breath against his lips. Sensory memories, for the most part, and L decided it would be easy to lose himself among them if he weren't careful.

But memories were easy to dismiss – particularly in this bright new city, its flavor so unlike Japan that it almost felt as though his time there had been from a dream, from another lifetime. Memories were bothersome but not unexpected, nor were they unmanageable. L could manage fine.

He didn't regret his decision to leave Japan – and Light. It was a decision he should have made earlier, long before he was taken over by sentimentality and emotion. He could see now, with the perspective of time and distance, that his behavior during those final twenty-four hours in Japan had been deplorably irrational; it was fortunate that the affair with Light hadn't managed to dissolve into something more threatening, because L wasn't sure he could have kept himself from becoming jeopardized irreparably.

His mistakes were many, but he needed to list them, lay them out like cold, hard facts so he could learn them and face his follies.

First: He should not have confronted Light face-to-face after deciding to end their association. It was a pointless, emotionally-driven decision when a phone call – or simply a text message – would have sufficed. But he had chosen to see Light one last time, to look in his eyes and watch as he realized he had been caught, and that had been a mistake – a potentially dangerous mistake that could have ended much worse than it had.

Second: He should not have ignored logic and jumped to an emotional conclusion after following Light to the flat with the anonymous businessman. Granted, assuming Light to be a prostitute was not an outlandish theory and was, even now, the most likely explanation according to the presented facts, but to instantly assume it to be the correct answer and not explore other options was an appalling blunder, especially for the greatest detective in the world. That Light had eventually confirmed this theory was of no consequence; jumping to conclusions was an amateur mistake, the type L couldn't afford.

Third: He should not have supposed, after that night with Mello and the gun and the jealousy-tainted sex, that just because he was aware of the developing attachment towards Light he still could control the situation and keep from slipping further. It was rationalization at its worst, a prime example of an _ad hoc_ hypothesis, and he had fallen easy victim to it.

Fourth: He should not have even let things with Light go beyond the first night. That was when the justification had very first begun, with that first taste of sweetened poison and the need it brought with it. L had told himself then that there was nothing different about Light compared to his former sexual partners, save that Light was a little more interesting, a little more intoxicating – but nothing L could not handle. Looking back now, this was clearly the reasoning of an addict.

Throughout it all, L should have been more cautious. Light was just a little too addictive to be considered strictly healthy; he should have realized this. But then, Wammy boys and unhealthy addictions had always gone hand-in-hand, so perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that he'd begun to slide into Light's particular brand of enslavement.

In the end, the core issue remained the same: L should have pulled out much earlier.

It was truly as simple as that, L decided. That was the answer he was seeking with all his over-analyzing of this whirlwind affair with Yagami Light, the solution he needed for the puzzle before he could feel settled and let ghosts finally be.

And now that he had arrived to that answer, the memories of the past should finally release their invisible hold on his mind. That was how it had always worked for L before: once a riddle or problem was solved, he had no more attention to give it.

It should have worked that way, and it almost did. L left Montreal for Jakarta, then Stockholm, then Buenos Aires, losing himself in cases so completely that time began to lose its measurability. There was little time to obsess over memories when there were criminals being so obligingly intriguing. It didn't matter if their individual thrall was fleeting; there was always another absorbing case waiting once one was unraveled and forced into the realm of rationality.

When L was working, he hardly even subsisted as an individual person – just a brain, a machine, an intuition. Memories did not exist for him then.

And yet, as hours bled into days and days into weeks and one foreign city dissolved into another, memories seemed to pursue him with a dogged perseverance, ambushing him in rare moments when wasn't completely immersed in a case. They'd catch him unawares as he nibbled into a pastry, or as he half-heartedly washed himself in the shower after being gently but sternly ordered there by Watari, or during those vulnerable moments just before sleep overtook him when his body hijacked itself and forced him into unconsciousness.

The memories were sneaky, elusive – hitting him fast and hard then fading away quickly like a ghost into the night, leaving him with a sudden wash of emotion he wasn't sure what to do with. Some memories were painfully fond, some soothingly infuriating, but each one distracting and each one more significant than it should be.

It was nauseating, the way a mere memory could so affect him. And frustrating.

Luckily, those moments were rare and becoming rarer. L became very proficient at dismantling memories as they struck, logic his aide as he meticulously took them apart and reasoned away their potency, rather than simply allowing them to sweep through him and do their damage. He turned his obsessive brain on itself, not permitting it to dwell on Light and anything associated with him, distracting it instead with puzzle after puzzle – and, by the time three weeks had passed since he'd last seen Light's face, he managed a success rate of about ninety-three percent.

All the while, Watari stayed by his side, hovering on the fringes, quietly and efficiently taking care of the mundane necessities and serving as a silent and steady support. He didn't question L or ask after his wellbeing; he simply dealt with the things L wouldn't and ensured there was a steady supply of interesting cases available. L, when he paused long enough to think about it, had never been so grateful for the man's imperturbable presence.

Routine returned. Inevitably, L's life became once again firmly and completely in his own control, and it was exactly what he wanted.

If it all seemed a bit more hollow than before, a little greyer and a little emptier, L reasoned that it was only to be expected. Light was a vibrant person, for better or worse, and it only made sense that when he left, he'd take some of the color with him.

* * *

><p>One month. It had passed like blurred smear rather than a tidy, linear measure of time, but still it was how long it had been since Light had flung his last-chance words at Ryuzaki's face and got them flung right back. It was how long it had been since he had first used paint to bleed his anger, rather than merely for creating his forgeries, and he hadn't stopped that indulgence yet.<p>

It was also, coincidentally, how long had passed since he had last picked up a pencil with the intent to put a face to paper.

The reasons for this were simple: there had been no work at the police station, and Light simply hadn't had the urge to draw in his spare time.

A lovesick teenage girl probably would have tried to ascribe this lack of desire to the supposed heartbreak he'd experienced, but Light knew better; it had nothing to do with Ryuzaki. Paint was just more interesting right now – much more complex than the basic limitations of black and white, much easier to lose himself among that complexity where there so many things to think about and manipulate, so many colors and tints and shades and choices. Pencil was just to direct and raw – too easy.

He still retained his obsession with faces, but now it found its expression in paint rather than pencil, in the intricacies of color rather than the harsh candor of grey. He painted like a man possessed some days, a slow burn in the back of his mind that drove him to return to apartment 204 again and again, as often as he could.

But he didn't draw. Why would he need it, when he had paint?

At least, that was until today, when Mogi finally called him in for a case and Light came down to the station to perfunctorily scratch out the depiction given between bouts of tears by a weepy witness. It was boring, easy, something he'd done what felt like a thousand times, and he found the girl's crying distasteful and vaguely irritating – despite this, he drew with his usual care and attention to detail. It stirred neither passion nor interest within him, but when had his work for the police ever done so? It was just a job, perhaps an intellectual distraction at best.

When the job was done, the day already long passed into evening, Light stopped by Mogi's desk to drop off the sketch. He found the man buried in paperwork, practically swimming in forms and documents and other hellish bureaucratic banalities that were all part of a detective's lot.

Stacks of paperwork weren't by any means an unusual sight at an NPA station – Light had learned that long ago.

What he did find interesting, however, was the teenage boy slouched in a seat in the corner, closer to Yoshimoto's – currently empty – half of the shared office, a bulging backpack at his feet. The dishwater blond hair that peeked out from beneath the boy's hood was distantly familiar, uncommon as it was, and when the stranger shifted and the lights caught his features, Light knew at once he had seen and memorized that face before, even if he couldn't place precisely where right away.

He mulled it over as he handed the swamped detective another sheet of paper to worry about, returning the wan twitch of an exhausted smile with a polite nod.

"Great," Mogi murmured appreciatively, his eyes scanning over the sketch. "Thanks for coming in this late."

"It wasn't a problem," Light smiled, suddenly glad it was Mogi he was dealing with today rather than Aizawa – another, rather irritable detective who worked with his father – or, worse, Matsuda. Matsuda always tried to talk for far too long, mistakenly thinking Light would somehow be interested in the boring details of his very painfully average life, until Light could have cheerfully shot the man through his over-active mouth.

"Anything else?" he asked Mogi, checking his watch. He could feel the weight of the unknown boy's eyes on him now, and he wondered what the kid was doing here at nine o'clock at night. He didn't appear to be in custody, though as he was a minor it was possible Mogi was simply being lenient and forgoing the handcuffs. Yet the air of resigned, slightly brooding patience – with a marked lack of hostility – didn't match that of the recently arrested.

Mogi frowned. "I don't think so… Though if you can wait a moment, I'll check to make sure there's no one else who needs a sketch done, while you're here."

"That's fine," Light agreed readily, preferring not to be called back in later if he could help it, and Mogi quickly rose and started out the door.

"I'll just be a moment," he assured as he left the room, and as he did a heavy silence fell in his wake.

Light softly drummed his fingers on Mogi's paper-strewn desk, the noise inordinately loud in the small office.

Deciding he didn't want to play this game of sneaking glances out of eyes' corners the boy in the chair seemed to be trying, Light turned and looked at him directly, sans any sort of pretense. The boy, clearly realizing he'd been caught, flitted his eyes away furtively, only to let them slide back a second later as though unable to stop himself from checking to see if Light was still looking at him.

He was.

"Hello," Light greeted in the driest of tones, one eyebrow twitching upwards.

"Uh, hey," the boy returned softly, not quite meeting Light's eyes – and as he began fiddling absently with the drawstring on his hoodie, a slight, embarrassed scowl pulling at his brows, Light remembered where he'd seen him before.

"You're Yoshimoto's nephew," he stated, no uncertainty in his voice.

That at least got the boy to look at him, a quick dart of his eyes that managed to stick for more than a fleeting moment this time. "Yeah," he admitted, his gaze careful, almost like a skittish animal. "And you're Chief Yagami's son, right?"

Mildly surprised, Light nodded.

"Yeah," the boy continued. "I, uh, saw you a few weeks ago talking to my uncle. He's talked about you before. And um, your dad." His Japanese was fine –clearly fluent – save for his habit of sticking in ungainly, hesitant pauses in where none should be and the occasional twist in pronunciation where a native speaker would know better. There was also a slightly awkward rhythm to his words, obviously caused by a faint foreign accent.

"Has he?" Light asked, a little amused by the way the nephew startled once he realized the implications of his words.

"I mean, not bad things about you," he was hasty to assure. "Just about how you do forensic sketches or whatever. It sounded pretty interesting."

Becoming bored now, his amusement ephemeral, Light hummed in answer and smiled his polite smile.

He'd found his tolerance level for unimaginative idiots had gone down over recent weeks, and this boy – uncommon accent aside – didn't seem any more interesting than the average high school student who couldn't form an intelligent thought if Light put a knife to his throat and demanded originality.

That he was the nephew of Yoshimoto – a known offender against Light's nerves – was merely another strike against him.

The boy, either noticing Light's rapidly dwindling interest or simply falling prey to another fit of teenage embarrassment, looked away and chewed at his bottom lip, his scowl back again, pulling lines into his face and making him look at once sullen and sheepish.

Light, looking at the boy, had never been quite so glad his teenage years were behind him.

Well, except for the part where they weren't technically behind him – his nineteenth birthday had come and gone during the past month, marked solely by an obligatory dinner with his family and five locked-away hours of intensive, feverish painting – but Light wasn't bothered with technicalities. Physical age was of no import; he'd been more adult than many of the technical grown-ups around him while he was still in the single digits.

But this boy here was obviously a teenager in all aspects of the word, right down to the suppressed, passive defiance lurking beneath the surface and the uncomfortable way he wore his body, as though it were a suit that didn't quite fit.

Light wondered, idly, what he was doing here in his uncle's shared office, but he was sure the answer was dull and mundane. It always was.

Thankfully, Mogi chose that moment to make his entrance, an apologetic set to his face and an ancient, chunky tape recorder in his hand.

"Matsuda," he said by way of explanation. "He recorded a witness's description for you. Will it be enough to go on?"

"Mm, depends how naturally descriptive the witness is without prompting," Light murmured as he accepted the recorder. "Other than that, it's actually rather enterprising of him."

"He has his moments," Mogi agreed.

"What about verifying the sketch?"

"He says he'll run it by the witness's house when you're done. Oh, and he said to go ahead and take the recorder home tonight and work on the sketch when you have time, then call him when it's ready. He'll pick it up from your place. And if you're out, he said you can leave it in an envelope on your doorstep."

"Convenient," Light remarked, eyebrow quirking. He tossed the recorder gently in his hand, the weight slightly awkward and unfamiliar. "Except this thing. Quite the relic, isn't it?"

Mogi grimaced slightly. "Standard issue around here."

Light slid a smile at him. "You should talk to the chief about that. It's rather shabby treatment."

The detective cracked a smile in return and said, "Yeah, maybe I'll do that."

Thoroughly ready to get out of there, Light stole a glance at the clock on Mogi's wall – it was two and a half minutes behind his watch – and palmed the recorder once again.

"Well," he announced, suddenly brisk. "It was nice talking with you again, Mogi-san. Call me if there's anything else."

Mogi nodded seriously. "I'll do that. Thanks again, Yagami-kun."

And with a final nod towards the boy in the corner – who twitched guiltily as if caught eavesdropping, when it was hardly possible to do otherwise in such a small room – Light swept from the room and at last out of the station.

There was still plenty of time to swing by apartment 204 and spend a few hours painting. His first class tomorrow began late into the morning, and there was nothing – and no one – else who held any claim to his time. With any luck, his almost-completed Bosch, painted delicately on aged wood, could be finished up tonight and sent into Mikami's capable hands, ready to be sold off to another waiting dupe.

And just in time. The Chagall was already being displayed proudly in a private collection somewhere in Denmark, but it wouldn't be long before it fell under suspicion. If not, a few well-placed words of doubt here or there – an anonymous letter, perhaps – ought to do the trick. And from there, it should only take a few more paintings, he knew, a few more staged forgeries before people started to sit up and take notice.

And then the game would change. It was inevitable; once the world – the art world, at least – caught on to the pattern, people would be more alert, more suspicious. But that would just make it more interesting.

And maybe, if he played his hand just right, he could even get L himself to come out and play.

It was unlikely. L had never concerned himself with something as insignificant as a few faked paintings – by latest accounts, mere rumors of course, he was currently chasing down a grisly murderer somewhere in New Zealand. Were Light in his shoes, he wouldn't be interested in a nameless forger either.

But then, there had never been a forger quite like Light. Light's ambition demanded nothing less than the best – and L was indisputably the best.

Maybe, if there was any luck in the world, L could make the world outside a canvas and brush intriguing again.

If not, Light would just have to make his own luck.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Several quick matters of business:<em>

_1) You are all gorgeous and wonderful; thank you so much for your support and patience._

_2) Last chapter was the most angst-heavy of the lot (probably), so don't worry, I won't do that to you again. (What, you don't like to start out your new year with a load of angst? Pshh. Weirdos.)_

_3) See item 1 again, and this time read it with a foreign accent._

_4) I'm just stalling now. A list of only two looked a bit pathetic, so I decided to fill it up with nonsense. Thanks for reading!_


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